


Mist Communication

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [16]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Banter, Depression, Exploration of sexuality, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Multi, Touch-Starved, Trauma Recovery, brief non-graphic description of child death, gratuitous headcanons, relationship exploration, setting is ambiguously icebrood saga, sexual/suggestive situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Roza is struggling with his many issues, all the while trying to figure out his... unconventional relationship with someone who hasn't been in the picture in years. It doesn't help that that someone is also a part of those issues.Or, the commander is eight years old. Maybe it's about time he figures himself out.
Relationships: Trahearne/Male Player Character (Guild Wars)
Series: roza [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	Mist Communication

**Author's Note:**

> hello lovelies! this can be read as a sequel to 'then, now, and forever more,' although it does reference the last couple of works in the series. also,
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: it is not the whole fic, of course, but there are discussions of sex and sexuality, so if that makes you uncomfortable, just skip to the next ~*~ break when they come up! there are two scenes where they have that kind of conversation - one near the beginning and one near the end. other than that it's just typical roza-flavour stuff :p . i might consider upping the rating if needed, but for now just consider it to be heavy T instead of M.

Roza first truly thinks about it back when he is still a tactician in the Vigil.

“Oh, and then this one,” Laranthir pushes another heavy book onto his desk, “is by a somewhat disreputable author. However, she writes the best, ah… passion scenes, if you ask me. I am fairly certain it is banned in most major cities, but Almorra—General Soulkeeper, I mean—managed to snag me a copy somehow. I’ve long since learned not to ask questions.”

Roza stares blankly at the book. He is regretting letting the conversation lead into this particular interest of Laranthir’s, but it is too late to pull back politely at this point. At least, he thinks so.

“I see,” he says. He is beginning to understand why Laranthir finds those words so useful when speaking to him.

“If you need a reference point, it is a good place to start.” Laranthir taps the cover. “The other races are so tight-lipped about these things. But I say that desire and love often go hand-in-hand, so why not embrace both with equal abandon?”

He lifts his hands with a smile. Roza says, “Sometimes you barely act like a sylvari, and then other times, you open your mouth and there is nothing else I can think about.”

The smile drops. “I simply… thought you were expressing interest,” Laranthir replies. He tugs the book back. “We can speak of something else, if you would like.”

This is a new tone he has begun to use that is replacing his old scolding one. It still means that Roza has said something wrong, except he will no longer be told off for it. Instead Laranthir will simply stop smiling, and let his head droop a little. Roza hates that this new strategy can make him feel so much more guilty than the previous one. Laranthir is… evolving.

He glances away, tugging at his fingers. “I just had a related question,” he mutters. “If you do not mind.”

He makes a face at the last words—what, is he requesting permission? But Laranthir smiles again, so it must be the right thing to say.

“Really, you can borrow the book if you need to,” he says, leaning forwards over his desk.

Roza presses his fingers to his temple. “No, Laranthir, I don’t want to read your erotica. I simply wish to know how these things…” He gestures vaguely, “begin. Amongst real people, not fictional ones.”

“Real people?” Laranthir’s eyebrows lift. “Is there someone you are interested in? Please, tell me.”

“Oh, because it is your business as my mentor, is it?” Roza rolls his eyes. “No, there isn’t anyone. But I have heard people make insinuations when they see me write my letters. They think that I am writing to a lover. I want to say I am not, of course, but I fail to understand how I would be able to tell the difference in the first place.”

“Ah.” Laranthir leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. “Your letters to Trahearne,” he clarifies, and Roza nods.

“Well, what is it you write about? Certainly it cannot only be Orr and necromancy.”

Roza shrugs. “It is, actually. There is nothing more to discuss.”

Laranthir frowns at that. “Nothing?”

Roza debates over how much to elaborate, then sighs. “I do not want to tell him much,” he admits. “He would not care about my… experiences. He cares about Orr, so I write about Orr.”

He is scratching at the wood of the desk. He realizes the anxiety that implies, stops, and glances up. Laranthir’s frown has grown.

“What makes you say that?” he asks in a quieter voice.

Roza shrugs again with his left shoulder. “Why would he care about me? He does not even like me.” The words should not be this difficult to push out, he notes in annoyance. It has been a few months by now, and he has come to terms with it. “He never did. I think he first only offered to write me out of pity, but by now he seems genuinely glad to have someone who is willing to hear everything he has to say. It ill behooves me to deny him that.”

Laranthir seems to take a moment to digest this. “Have you told him you felt this way?” he offers.

It is Roza’s turn to frown. “Why would I? No.”

“Why would you indeed,” Laranthir mutters lowly. He clears his throat. “Well, in any case, it certainly does not seem as if you are in love with him. I admit I myself thought at first you had a bit of a crush, but it does not sound like it.”

Roza must make some face at that, because he adds a little laugh and says, “What, is the idea so despicable?”

“Yes. From the derogative way people use the word, I have gathered it something shameful.”

Laranthir smiles in a way that makes him a little uncomfortable. “There is no shame in love,” he murmurs in a voice to match. “When someone you are in love with is around you, you feel… butterflies in your stomach. You feel warm and tingly when they around, and if you have a heart, it leaps in your chest whenever you hear their voice.”

“We don’t have hearts,” Roza points out. “I think you may be reading too many trashy novels.”

Laranthir waves him off. “And you feel as if the highlight of your day is when you speak to them. If your feelings are strong enough, your world revolves around them. You would do anything for them, and if they were there by your side, you could, no matter how impossible the task.”

“Alright, alright.” Roza holds up a hand to stop him before he can keep going. “I get the picture. You become an idiot completely uprooted from reality.”

Laranthir sighs. “You have no taste for romance,” he says mournfully. “I wish I could find love, you know. Often have I sought it, but never with success. Perhaps one day. Until then, I'll serve the Vigil as if it were my beloved.”

“This conversation was a mistake, I believe,” says Roza.

Laranthir’s mouth tugs down into a sad pout. Roza rolls his eyes, and then once more, stronger, when the book gets slowly nudged towards him.

“It will be educational,” Laranthir insists.

Roza stares at the cover—it depicts two fleshlings in a dramatic, passionate embrace. _Woven Hearts III: Reunion and Reignition_ , the title declares proudly.

He takes it, slowly and _extremely_ begrudgingly. “It will be terrible, and I will come back to tell you just how terrible it is, in detail,” he warns Laranthir’s beaming smile.

It only grows. “I cannot wait.”

~*~

Roza is loathe to admit that when the time comes for it, he gives Laranthir’s—terrible, off the cuff, completely inaccurate—description of love far more weight than it deserves. He spends a long time wondering if he _does_ have a crush on Trahearne, but eventually decides that he sees him in the same way he does Firstborn Dagonet. He is in awe of all he has accomplished, as a necromancer and a scholar both, and his dedication and passion to his Wyld Hunt is absolutely admirable. But as a person, he is…

He is kind, and patient. Sometimes stern, but also gentle, and he has a sense of humour that Roza discovers is eerily similar to his own. Other than that, he is… distant.

And it hurts, being there next to him. Roza doesn’t think it is supposed to hurt.

It is just that he is constantly reminded of how uncharismatic he is, how undesirable as a person and especially as a friend. The Syska incident is the worst of it. The illusion that is not Trahearne speaks sharply to him, aiming to maim, and Roza withers within mere moments. Then it berates, and mocks, and threatens to strip him of his command, and although by then Roza has figured out that it is not real, he can do nothing to stop the shaking and panic it incites. It does not go away for a long time.

Trahearne, after the debrief, does not seem to understand. Roza watches him frown and feels even worse, but locks his spine to bear through the conversation regardless. Trahearne says that they are friends and he is—shocked.

But either he is lying or he does not have the same definition of friendship that Roza does. He knows they are no such thing. Trahearne may feel neutral about him now because of what he has accomplished, but he certainly hasn’t magically started to care. Roza has never missed Laranthir more.

Luckily, he meets him again soon afterwards. On impulse he gives him his first grown leaf, soft and young and freshly violet, and he feels so, so warm from the gesture and the beautiful smile it invokes. The warmth fades when he has to leave again, to go back to Trahearne’s side. His duty is there. His Wyld Hunt is there. His heart is not.

After cleansing Orr he experiences… a moment of weakness. Trahearne sounds so—he sounds so—genuine. Roza hugs him. It feels so different than Laranthir. He thinks it is a mistake.

It happens again after Zhaitan.

Then things change, and it hurts still sometimes, it does. But Roza cannot lie to himself and say he does not notice them becoming closer. Sometimes Trahearne smiles at him, and it is… sweet. Roza recognizes fondness, but to hear it from more than just one person’s mouth is nothing short of shocking. He does not understand why. He has barely changed as a person—he is still a terrible thing with too many teeth, little to no social skills, and barely any softness. Why is Trahearne fond of _that_?

Life continues. And Roza does not know why or when it happens exactly, but one day he finds himself thinking about Laranthir’s description of love, and finds that he… understands. A little. He still thinks it is absurd.

After that, his relationship with Trahearne hurts for an entirely different reason.

~*~

“Roza,” Trahearne mumbles when they are in the Mists, and Roza kisses his own name from his lips. It is poetic—that name is like a baton of love passed between the two of them during an eternal relay, he thinks, and then winces internally. No, that is terrible. Dagonet would be disgusted.

“Mm,” he replies, moving his legs to straddle Trahearne’s so there is less space between them. He slides his hands to hold each side of his ex-marshal’s—no, that doesn’t quite have the same ring to it—face and kisses him again, slower. He is getting quite good at this, he thinks. Of course he is—he is nothing if not a quick learner.

He bites at Trahearne’s lower lip and gets a quiet groan. Encouraged, he presses himself closer still, slipping one hand underneath his ferns, against the bare bark of his chest.

“ _Roza_ ,” Trahearne repeats. The word is heavy. “Stop.”

Roza frowns and draws back, a little quickly. He hates the sudden fear that manifests in his stomach, this thin and spindling thing. What does he want to stop? Just this? Them?

Trahearne must notice that something is wrong, because he offers up a quick smile. “It is not you,” he says. “I just… need a moment.”

Roza unhooks his legs from around his waist and slithers off of him, sitting in the strange sand underneath them. He looks away.

“I am sorry if that was too much,” he says. He does not know what is right and wrong to do, with… this. “I do not mean to be needy.”

A soft touch to his jaw makes him look up. Trahearne is frowning. “You are not needy. You are nothing short of amazing, Roza.”

The smile comes back, and Roza blushes from it. Oh, but he almost feels young again.

Trahearne’s thumb strokes his cheek, slow and thoughtful. Just that simple gesture of affection should not mean so much, but Roza has been having one of his grey periods—Canach calls it his “brooding habit,” because his mind and his arse switched places when he awoke—and he leans into the touch, yearning for it.

“I would love to keep going,” says Trahearne, “But I need a minute before we do.”

“What is wrong?” Roza touches his hand, briefly covering it with his own. “Tell me, Trahearne.” He will fix it.

Trahearne quirks an awkward little smile. “Nothing is _wrong,_ exactly,” he says. “But, ah… unless you are comfortable with eliciting a certain reaction from me, it may be best to start taking pauses in our…”

“Steamy snogging sessions?” Roza raises an eyebrow.

Trahearne breathes out a laugh. “Pale Mother, you are still the same. Yes, I suppose. That.”

Roza tries to smile back. “I am sorry. It was not my intent to… elicit anything, as you put it.”

“I figured.” Trahearne chuckles. “No harm done.”

“But I do not mind.” Roza tugs up his knee, looping an elbow over it. “Unless you only want it to happen if it is reciprocal. I… understand if it is a bad thing that it is not.”

Trahearne frowns at him, and the hand on his face tips it up once more. “It is not a bad thing.”

Roza shrugs. “It is what it is. You cannot say it does not bother you, surely? That I do not stare at you like you do at me.”

Trahearne colours somewhat at that—he says he does not blush anymore, but Roza can see it happening, even if he apparently doesn’t feel it—and shakes his head. “Roza, it does not bother me at all. You’ve never looked at me in that way, and I’ve never once minded. Is this something you have been thinking about? You’ve never brought it up as a negative thing before.”

Roza sighs. “I apologize. This must seem incredibly juvenile to you.”

“It is not,” Trahearne replies. “It is natural to question these things about oneself, especially considering you never had the time nor opportunity to figure it out. I am only concerned because I didn’t know you were insecure about it.”

Roza winces. “I am not _insecure_ , it is just… all of the books. The plays, the songs. Even simply talking to people indicates it seems to be a staple of being in a relationship. Two people love each other, and then they kiss, and then they desire each other, and then they have sex.” He looks down at his hands. “But I have never desired someone. Not even you, and you deserve that kind of attention more than anyone. I feel like… perhaps, a failure of a lover.”

The words feel thick in his mouth, sticky—he is not used to admitting failures. But Trahearne deserves that much. Trahearne deserves all of him, even the parts of himself he usually hides.

“Roza.” The word is scolding but soft, and is accompanied by an equally soft press of lips to his cheek. Roza’s eyes flutter shut for its fleeting duration.

“You are not a failure of anything,” Trahearne murmurs as he moves away. “Not a lover, not a friend, not a commander. Did I not just say you are amazing? I am dead now; perhaps you should start listening to me.”

Roza stumbles out a little laugh. “Perhaps I should.” He draws a line in the not-sand with his forefinger, deciding to switch the subject to something that does not bleed when tugged at like it is a bird caught in a bramble bush. “Canach says I was a…”

He pauses to think. Canach has called him _many_ unflattering words, only half of which were joking. He picks, “… tease. Is that a bad thing?”

“Oh.” Trahearne makes an interesting face, and Roza frowns at it. “You were… Ah, how should I put this?”

Roza sighs. “You can say I was terrible. I know I was.”

Trahearne looks as if he is trying not to smile. “That isn’t the word I would use. You certainly made things interesting, that is for sure.”

Roza rolls his eyes. “Please. As soon as I figured out I could get a reaction out of you—and it was only you, I will admit that now—I tried to yank you around as much as I could. I was an absolute menace.” He pauses. “It _was_ fun, though.”

Trahearne pulls him closer. “A menace with no regrets,” he says. “Come, menace. I think we can pick up where we left off now.”

Roza brushes his finger over his lips. “Trahearne. I do not want to stop if you get aroused.”

He can both see and feel the shiver those words earn. “Menace,” Trahearne repeats, but it is in a lower voice.

Roza grins sharply. “You know what, spirits _can_ feel,” he says in a tone he hasn’t used in years. It feels strange and rusty in his throat, but judging by Trahearne’s swallow, it still has more or less the same effect. “Intimately, I mean. I would like to see how much, if you would allow me.”

Trahearne takes a careful breath. He doesn’t even have to breathe, Roza notes, amused. “I want to know why, if you do not mind.”

Roza had expected that. “I will not lie and say I do not find it fun to tug at your strings,” he says with a simple shrug. Trahearne nods, as if he knew that would be a point. Roza continues, “But I also want to… just explore what you want. Know how to please you. And I want to give you, ah…”

His grin returns. Trahearne sighs. “Don’t,” he says in a voice that is already resigned.

“Release,” Roza finishes. He tries a wink. Trahearne groans, burying his head in his neck.

After a minute he replies, “If we are ever going to do that, I would want to return the favour. Or at least try to, and see if you like it.”

Roza’s breathing speeds up, but nervousness is an instinctive reaction, not a pervasive feeling. “Go on,” he offers cautiously.

Trahearne’s nose moves along his neck, stopping at his furred collar. Roza tries to tell himself he does not notice. “Part of desire is the compulsion to… engage with your partner,” Trahearne explains. “If I am aroused and you are actively working to further that instead of simply letting it be or stopping like we just did, then I would get the urge to do the same to you. Now, that doesn’t mean I can’t _ignore_ that urge. I have been stopping myself with how far I take things with you. Chaste kissing is usually safe, but beyond that… I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, either with your own body or with me.”

Roza takes a steadying breath. “But you do want,” he says to clarify. “Me.”

Trahearne nods against his shoulder. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know,” Roza admits. He takes another breath to calm himself. He feels warm and somewhat on edge, but he is curious. “Can you show me what you stop yourself from doing? In case I do not mind it.”

Trahearne’s head raises to look him in the eye. “Roza,” he begins in a low voice.

“I am sure,” Roza says quickly. “Just… clothes on. Please.”

“Of course.” Trahearne leans their heads together. “Tell me as soon as you get uncomfortable and I will stop, alright?”

Roza nods. He feels Trahearne smile, and then they are kissing again, and this is familiar and more than pleasant. He slides his hands over Trahearne’s back as his eyes fall shut, slotting them in between his ferns.

The kiss deepens. This is familiar too, although less so, but it is still something Roza very much enjoys. He lets Trahearne take the lead, content to sink into the sensation. He is… kissing. _Trahearne_. The thought is dizzying. Trahearne loves him, despite everything. He is still dead, but Roza can _be_ with him now, and never have to worry about him dying ever again. It should be enough. He is really trying to believe it is.

He is getting comfortably lost in his sensations and thoughts when he feels something brush against the tip of his ear. It sends a jolt through him and he jerks a little, not expecting it.

“Yours are long,” Trahearne murmurs against his lips. “Some sylvari are sensitive there, so I thought I might try. I am glad to be right.”

Roza warms. He nudges their lips back together, trying to ignore how hot his face feels. The touch to his ear returns and stays, sending a warm, lingering tingle through him that is new and oddly disorienting—he is not used to feeling like this—but not unpleasant.

“I think I might like this,” he says in some surprise.

Trahearne laughs against him. “Glad to hear it,” he replies. “I will take it slowly, do not worry. I’m going to move down now, alright?”

Roza nods. He vaguely remembers light fingers, a dark night, and this same tingling sensation in his chest. He doesn’t expect Trahearne’s mouth to be what makes contact with his bark this time, however.

It travels downwards, slowly. Roza arches his neck without meaning to, eyelids fluttering. This is… nice. This is very nice. It is _much_ , but… he would not say no to doing it more often.

“You have an erogenous spot here,” Trahearne says into the base of neck. His lips are smiling. “I never forgot.”

Roza feels another kiss, and then—a tongue. He startles more strongly than he should, fingers jumping to claws in Trahearne’s ferns.

“It’s alright,” Trahearne soothes immediately. He draws away by a few inches, and his hand strokes down Roza’s back, slow and firm. It arcs inwards, as if trying to escape the touch. He feels—caught. “I know this is new. I’ve got you.”

Roza’s shoulders have tensed up, he notices. He forcibly relaxes them. “I… think I want to stop here,” he mumbles. He dips his head into Trahearne’s shoulder, abashed. “I am sorry. I like all of this, I believe, but it is very overwhelming.”

“I understand,” Trahearne reassures. “Don’t be sorry, my love. Thank you for trusting me enough to try this.”

 _My love_. Oh, what Roza would give to be able to hear that every day. “It is just… people usually do not touch me at all,” he explains stiltedly.

“Oh,” says Trahearne.

Roza clutches at him, suddenly not wanting to look up and see his expression. “Only a couple of people do, and I feel as if I barely get to see them. And I have missed you so much. I have missed the way you feel, and smell.” He inhales deeply, as if by trying hard enough, he might be able to smell him once again. “I want to be with you how you want me to. But… I do not work properly anymore. I am sorry.”

His hands are starting to shake, and he clenches them into Trahearne’s ferns, pulling himself tighter against him. He continues, “It is—” Frightening. “Difficult, at times, to be unaware of things. Like touch. If too much is going on around me, it can be… overly intense.”

“Roza.” Trahearne pets down his back, slow and steady, and this time it is expected and welcome. “I understand—it’s alright. Do not be so hard on yourself.”

That statement hits a little too close for comfort. “It’s not alright,” Roza grits out. “I was not always like this. Things used to be so easy. _We_ used to be easy. Now I can barely…” Shaking again. Damn it. _Damn_ it. “Talk to someone without falling to fucking pieces.”

“It is because the world is too cruel to you and you need a break.” Trahearne speaks surprisingly sharply. “Roza, I am not unfamiliar with the wounds you have gauged in your soul. I have heard accounts, from yourself and others. You are still bleeding, and you need time and space to heal. I am not going to come to you, here in this one place where you should have no stressors, and put additional pressure onto you.”

Roza closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Trahearne’s chest. “It’s not fair to you,” he argues. “You should not have to wait for me. You deserve someone who can give you everything you want.”

“I already have everything I want,” Trahearne replies. “He is right here in front of me, taking on burdens that are not his and blaming himself for crumbling beneath their weight. What a fool, hm?”

That makes Roza smile, although it is all teeth. “He does not sound like someone worth loving,” he says lowly.

“On the contrary. That only means he needs more love. And luckily, I am fully willing to occupy my endless time dedicating myself to giving him absolutely nothing else.”

Roza clings to him tighter. A hand spreads into the base of his branches. “Maybe you are the fool,” he mumbles, instead of _I do not deserve you_.

“Oh, I most certainly am,” Trahearne agrees. “But I have long since come to terms with that.”

Roza breathes out a croaky laugh. Trahearne presses a kiss to his head, and it is sweet, and not overwhelming at all.

“Anyways, I have to apologize,” Roza says after it ends. “I know you desperately want to do vile and profane things to my innocent virginal body, but I do not know if I will ever be prepared for it.”

Trahearne goes still against him. “Alright,” he says as Roza starts to smile, “Firstly: that is perfectly fine with me, and I will _keep_ telling you that until you believe it, but secondly and more importantly: vile and profane?! I will have you know that lovemaking is an art, my dear Roza.”

Roza sighs, beseeching the Misty heavens as he lets his heart drift lighter. “You are starting to sound like Laranthir.”

“Also,” Trahearne continues, ignoring him, “Virginal, perhaps, but innocent? I have never met someone who was more of an absolute terror.”

Roza pouts, drawing back, and Trahearne fixes him with a pointed look. “I am a beacon of purity,” he insists.

“Really? What was it Aurene told me once about scorpions in boots?” Trahearne raises an eyebrow. “Elonian scorpion stings are incredibly painful, Roza.”

“Only to _humans_.” Roza rolls his eyes. “Probably. You don’t understand. They kept arguing, and it was so incredibly irritating. I just wanted to put a little pep in their step.”

And in his defense, the ensuing scene of Canach and Rytlock screaming like flesh children and hurling their things everywhere had been incredibly funny. He isn’t about to tell Trahearne that, though.

Trahearne sighs, as if the addition is implied anyways. “Pale Mother guide your friends,” he says. “You know, I miss even your antics, sometimes. You are so chaotic, but…” He smiles suddenly, and the emotion in his eyes halts the breath in Roza’s chest. “You are my chaos.”

Roza shouldn’t blush at that. He does anyways. “That makes absolutely no sense, and is terribly cheesy to boot,” he mutters through it.

Trahearne takes his hand and kisses it, soft and lingering. Roza warms like he has just been set alight by his lips. How embarrassing.

“I will miss you when you go back,” Trahearne says. “Your attitude, your terribleness, and most especially the sweet way you look when you are flustered.” He smiles, and Roza’s blush deepens impossibly. “It is nearing the time for you to go, is it not?”

Roza has been thinking about that. He doesn’t respond immediately, just takes Trahearne’s lavender-cast face in his hands like he had earlier and kisses him on the mouth, for as long as he can.

He stops to breathe. He leans their foreheads together as his lungs fill themselves once more. “What if you didn’t have to miss me?” he murmurs.

Trahearne sighs forlornly. “I will never stop missing you, my dear Roza. But it is a sweet ache. Promise me you will return to me soon.”

Roza shakes his head. “What if you could be with me outside of the Mists? What if you were always only one click of a communicator away?”

Trahearne pulls back, frowning. Roza continues hurriedly, not wanting to give him false hope, “Just… audio. I fear it may be the only thing we can get to work. But if it _does_ …”

“Roza,” Trahearne says carefully, “What are you implying?”

Roza smiles.

~*~

Gorrik is less certain about the idea than he is.

“I don’t know, Commander.” He nudges a finger behind the bridge of his glasses, scratching hesitantly. “Not to undermine my unquestionable brilliance, of course, but that kind of thing… may not be safe, if it’s even possible.”

Roza crosses his arms. “Surely it is more safe than this portal-hopping I have been doing. Small or not, Aurene says every time one is created, it is akin to reopening a wound in the veil.”

“Yes, and a communicator would be doing the same thing, except on a much smaller scale. Think microlesions instead of large tears. Less noticeable, but equally dangerous.”

Roza lifts his head. Time to bite the bullet. “I’ve been thinking of how revenants utilize their magic,” he says.

“You’re not a revenant,” Gorrik points out.

“My soul is touched,” Roza points right back. “Technically, I could be used as a link. An unchained power source, so the damage to the Mists would be minimal, if there was any at all. That way, the integrity of the barrier would not be compromised.”

Gorrik’s eyes widen. “You’re suggesting that you use your own energy to power the transmissions. But that would mean…”

Roza looks at him steadily. “It is a risk I am willing to take.”

“But you’d be putting yet another strain on your body! Not only your body, but your soul! No. I’m sorry, Commander, but I have to refuse. You…”

He flinches, then smoothes out his expression in a way Roza recognizes with a familiar pang. When had Gorrik picked that up from him?

“You’re already putting far too much mental and physical strain on yourself, especially considering your health conditions. And—and I don’t think throwing more sun on you will help this one. No! Absolutely not. You’re _my_ commander, and I don’t like it when you…”

He pauses, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes. Roza kneels down and lays a hand on his small shoulder. “Gorrik,” he says gently.

Gorrik puts his glasses back on and scowls at him. “You can’t convince me,” he says. “Nope. Maybe ask your dead boyfriend to be the siphon instead.”

“That won’t work, and you know it.” Roza ducks his head. “Gorrik, please. You don’t have to do this—you are of course under no obligation—but… I just want to be able to talk to him again. I…” His eyes flick away as he considers how open to be, then back. “I miss him so much.”

There is a long silence. Gorrik looks down. Eventually, he says to Roza’s knees, “You know… I’ve heard what people say about you. But I think they're wrong. You’re not cold and heartless at all.”

Roza looks at him with quiet eyes. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “That means a lot to me.”

Gorrik sighs. “No, I mean… you didn’t want to bother Taimi, even though you knew she could help you too. And you didn’t try to convince me by making this about my brother.”

That old, dull ache rises in Roza’s chest, but he pushes it down. Gorrik isn’t trying to imply anything. “I would never try to manipulate you,” he says. “If you truly do not want to help me, Gorrik, I understand. I apologize if I have upset you.”

He makes to stand up, but Gorrik catches his skirt. “Wait,” he says.

Roza stops. Gorrik pauses for another reluctant second, and then continues, “If I ever had the opportunity to talk to Blish again, even if it meant hurting myself to do it, well… I would. And we don’t have to hurt you. We could optimize the signal’s connection to be far more reliable—maybe try to cut down on and stabilize the channels through which it would have to be transferred.” He pushes at the bridge of his glasses, gaining momentum with his idea. “Of course! And if we use the already dead part of your soul—you see, there’s still a _little_ bit of it that’s always going to be tied to the Mists, and we can’t do anything to extract it from there, but what we _can_ do, since it’s stuck there, is try to utilize it as efficiently as possible, since of course it’s not contributing to anything currently, which is really such a waste of resources, because imagine the academic potential…”

Roza loses him about three branching tangents later, but he smiles through all of them. This could work. This could _work_.

It works.

~*~

Roza is holding his new communicator, and he is… nervous.

He does not like being nervous. Nervousness means fear, uncertainty, and, most dauntingly, the possibility of failure. He does not want to fail. Pale Mother, does he not want to fail.

He has spent far too long staring at this small, dark grey box. It would be so easy to just turn it on and let it become a permanent fixture in his belt. It cannot be hacked, or interfered with. It could even be considered hands-free, since there is only one channel: Trahearne.

In theory.

Roza’s grip tightens around it. It is just one press of a button. He can do that much.

He waits for too long again, because he is still frozen in indecision when he hears the quiet, “Hey.”

He looks up. Taimi gives him a small smile.

Roza’s shoulders slump. “Taimi.” But he is too emotionally tuned into this now to be worried about petty things like friends finding out about private affairs. Besides, it is not as if she can stop him.

“Hey,” he returns, quirking his mouth to the side.

“Whatcha got there?” She approaches him slowly. “Hah. Just kidding. I already know everything. Gorrik _really_ thought I wouldn’t be able to guess his password, can you imagine?”

Roza’s eyes sink back to the little grey box. “Taimi,” he repeats.

“Oh, save it, Poobah.” Despite the words, her tone is more jovial than upset. “We can skip past the excuses part of this conversation—I know what that does and who it leads to.”

“No.” Roza just barely shakes his head. “I was going to say that I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Oh,” Taimi says.

“It’s ridiculous, I know.” Roza flashes his teeth. “Because if it doesn’t work, we simply figure out why and make another one, right? But I don’t want it to not work. I would say I’m fixated on it, in fact. It can’t be healthy.”

His smile dries. Taimi looks up at him, and then to the communicator. “I mean… you won’t know until you try it, right? Worst thing that could happen is it rips an even bigger hole in reality than you meant to rip.”

“Right,” says Roza.

Taimi gives him a small smile and pokes him in the leg. “Well, go ahead. I’m not going to stop you. Maybe I should, but… I don’t really care anymore. This really matters to you, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Roza confirms.

“Then tap that button and talk to Trahearne, you doofus.” She pokes him again, although with less strength.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he says. “What if it never works, and I won’t ever be able to speak to him?”

Taimi’s hand drifts up to cover his own, hovering uncertainly over the communicator. “It won’t ever work if you don’t let it. Here, I’ll do it with you, okay? Count us down.”

Roza draws in a slow breath. He feels ridiculous at the reassurance, but also strangely relieved. “Alright,” he says. “Thank you. Uh, three… two…” A slightly longer pause, and he could kick himself for it. Coward. “One.”

They press down together. There is the crackle of static as the device starts up, and then silence.

Taimi makes an expectant face. She holds it for about five seconds before glancing at Roza and saying, “Well. That was anticlimactic.”

Roza winces. He opens his mouth, but then the communicator crinkles in a blessed, beautiful voice, “ _Hello? Roza?”_

“Actually, it’s Tai—”

“Trahearne!” Roza jerks it up to his mouth, just barely minding Taimi’s hand. “Trahearne, can you hear me?”

“ _Yes! I can… hear you.”_ His voice sounds a bit distant, and Roza feels a drop of panic before it continues, “ _Hold on. Gretchen, give it here. Let me…”_ A fumbling noise, and then, clearer, “ _There we go. I’m coming through fine on your end?”_

Roza could _weep_. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, you’re—perfect. It’s perfect. Oh.” Tears spring in his eyes, and he shouldn’t be surprised at them, he really shouldn’t be. Trahearne is _here_ now. With him, wherever he goes. He isn’t locked behind impossibility and death anymore. “Pale Mother, I’ve missed you.”

 _“In the extremely short period of time since you popped in to give me this thing?”_ Trahearne’s voice is smiling. _“How romantic.”_

 _“Okay, stop being_ gross.” Another voice, much higher-pitched. Taimi, who has stepped back to give Roza space, shoots him a puzzled look. “ _Uh, Commander Boyfriend? It’s me—do you remember me? My sister is like, president of your hateclub?”_

Roza, who was just about to find a kind, child-friendly way to tell her to go away, switches tracks mid-thought. “I’m sorry, my what?”

“ _Yeah, like, they think you’re all overrated and stuff? And like, weird. But Treehern told me a bunch of nice stuff about you, so at least I think you’re a lot better now_. _”_

“Um, am I… missing something here?” Taimi peers at the communicator in confusion. “Do you know who that is, Commander?”

“ _Sorry—I’m sorry about her.”_ Trahearne’s voice comes through again, somewhat rushed. “ _Gretchen, just—go sit over there, please. Sorry. Roza?”_

“Commander Boyfriend reporting in,” Roza says as the communicator lets out a childish huff of annoyance and presumably stalks away.

Trahearne laughs. The sound warms Roza from the inside out, the sensation spreading from his chest to the tips of his fingers. He holds the device closer to his ear, as if that will make it last longer.

“I’ll leave the two of you alone.” Taimi gives him an odd smile. “It was nice to… hear you—I guess—again, Trahearne.”

Roza realizes that he is smiling without being aware of it—something that does not happen anymore. He touches his cheek, glancing at his fingertips as if they will tell him why.

_“That is Taimi, right? You sound… much older than I recall. May the Pale Tree guide your path, young asura.”_

Taimi makes to leave, then pauses. “Oh! And take care of the Commander, okay? Make sure he remembers to eat and sleep enough. Bother him until he does! Always worked for me.”

Roza groans. “Taimi.”

“ _I will.”_ Trahearne’s smile is back in his voice. _“I’ve had years to refine my pestering techniques in revenge for when he used to do the same to me. Trust me, he doesn’t know what he has coming.”_

Taimi chuckles. “Good to hear.” She begins to move away again, but Roza goes after her, bending down to give her a light hug.

“I’ll come by more often,” he says in a low tone, quiet enough for only her to hear. “I should visit more, I know. I’ll make an effort.”

“Wow, he really _is_ good for your health if he works this fast.” She hugs him back, and he runs his fingers down her hair, shelving the somewhat odd comment to ruminate on later. “I’ll hold you to that, Roza. I’m gonna bother you if you don’t bother me, ‘kay?”

He laughs lightly. “I hope you will. And… thank you, Taimi. I owe you.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t owe me anything. Just… I know sometimes you really want to be by yourself. But people miss you. And some of us may not be able to afford that much time to wait for you.”

Roza bows his head in guilt, but nods. “I’ll visit more often,” he promises, squeezing her hand. She squeezes it back.

~*~

Roza should have expected, really, that Trahearne wants to do more with his newfound link to Tyria than simply talk to _him_.

“No, no—don’t say anything,” Roza insists now. “It will be incredibly entertaining, trust me.”

Trahearne sighs. _“I don’t think he’ll find it terribly amusing.”_

“I can live with that.” They’re nearing a small, rounded leaf house, one among many. The only thing that distinguishes it from the rest is the small sign stuck into the front garden, with the words _Laranthir of the Wild_ scrawled across it. Roza smiles at it (Laranthir had finally given in to his bullyi—to his… helpful suggestion some time ago. Roza can be very persuasive when he needs to be).

“Alright, we’re here. Be quiet until your cue. We don’t want to give anything away.”

_“I don’t even know what my cue is. Also, this is terrible, and I can’t believe I’m going with it.”_

“You’ll know it when you hear it,” Roza says cryptically. He chooses to ignore the rest. “Now shush.”

Trahearne sighs again—perhaps a tad overdramatically—but goes quiet. Roza flicks the windchime by the door, watching as it clinks together discordantly. “Laranthir?” he calls out.

“Roza, is that you?” He hears from inside. There is a shuffling noise. “Come in! Come in.”

Roza peels open the door and steps into the now familiar house, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like pollen in here,” he accuses the figure sitting in a hammock at the far end. “You need to air this place out.”

Laranthir huffs in amusement. He sets something down in the hammock—a book, Roza thinks—and slips out of it, approaching him. He looks well.

“It can smell like nothing else up here,” he says. He opens one arm in a silent invitation. “It’s good to see you again. How are things going in the Shiverpeaks?”

Roza doesn’t want to think about that. “Lovely,” he mutters. “I am constantly reminded that the Olmakhan are the superior charr society. Besides that, it is pleasantly cold.”

He steps forward to accept the hug, if only because he hasn’t had one from someone who was completely tangible in… some time. Not that he should be thinking about that right now. He should be thinking about Trahearne, and this lovely prank he is playing.

His shoulders stay stiff and hunched together, but Laranthir doesn’t seem to mind, embracing him fully. “You are in your element, then,” he says with a smile. He sits at his table, and Roza goes to join him, crossing his legs neatly over a mushroom stool.

He raises an eyebrow. “Was that a pun? Come on.”

“Ab-snow-lutely not.” Laranthir’s smile widens.

Roza groans, although it is half to cover the predictable, quickly-muffled snicker from his communicator. “Keep going and I _will_ leave. So, what were you reading?” He nods at the hammock.

Laranthir winces. “Nothing terribly fulfilling, I’m afraid. I’m on the mailing list for a few authors, you see, and sometimes they publish something that is less than desirable to read. But I have little else to do nowadays.”

“You, critiquing bad literature?” Roza’s other eyebrow shoots up. “The world really is changing. Did you know, you’ve gotten Canach started on _Woven Hearts_? I think he wants payback for the braincells it stripped from him.”

Laranthir’s mouth opens in offense. Roza laughs, not terribly kindly, and he sighs.

“You are charming as ever,” he says dryly. “So tell me, what brings you to my branch of the Tree?”

Ah. Time to begin. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” Roza says with false solemnity. He folds his hands together on the table, tucking his chin into his neck.

“Alright.” Laranthir’s tone is half curious. He leans forwards, mirroring the pose.

“It’s about… Trahearne,” Roza continues. He sends a quick prayer to the Tree around him that said sylvari stays silent throughout what is most likely going to be a humiliating conversation. For him.

“Ah, I see. Have you been visiting him more often, then? I’ve heard that you haven’t been around much lately.”

Roza suppresses a quick frown. Heard from…? “I have,” he confirms, sidestepping around that topic. “And… I want your advice.” He ducks his head further, looking up at Laranthir with eyes as round as he can muster. “Please.”

Laranthir glances away for a second, and then back to him. “I take it this advice has something to do with the nature of your relationship?”

Roza nods, scratching at the table with his fingernail. “We want to… take the next step, if you get what I mean,” he says in a hushed voice. “But I… I don’t really know how to.”

Laranthir leans back on his stool. His gaze is shrewd. “I see.”

Roza tries to make his eyes bigger. It helps that they’re black, at least. “You are aware that I… I never really got the chance to learn about these things, what with the Elder Dragons and everything,” he mumbles. “Although I don’t usually like to admit that.”

“You don’t,” says Laranthir.

“But you’re different. I thought… well, you’ve always helped me out with personal matters. A-and you wouldn’t judge me for something like this. Not you, Laranthir. You have always been kind to me.”

“I try to be.” Laranthir ducks his head to match Roza’s eye level. “Alright, I can think of some ‘advice,’ for you already, if you’re willing to hear it. Do you want me to be honest?”

Roza knits his fingers together, trying to look earnest. “Please. I know you’re too nice to me at times.”

“Oh, I really am. Well, my advice is this: You’re laying it on a bit thick. If the ‘please’ isn’t a giveaway, then the frankly churlish attempt at fishing for heartstrings to yank at is. Not to mention,” He gestures vaguely to all of Roza, “Whatever in Pale Mother’s name _this_ is. Terribly out of character.”

Roza gapes at him. A short second later, he hears a laugh from his communicator.

 _“Well played, Laranthir,_ ” Trahearne says warmly. _“I have to admit, I was rather hoping that would happen.”_

Laranthir’s eyes widen. He lurches towards Roza—who leans back—bracing his forearms against the table.

“Trahearne?!” Roza has never heard him sound so excited. He barks out a disbelieving laugh. “Now _that_ is a voice I welcome hearing.”

Roza scoffs, offended at the implication. Trahearne says, _“It’s good to hear you too, my friend! How have—Roza, move me closer.”_

“‘ _Roza, move me closer_ ,’” Roza whines under his breath. He takes out his communicator and lays it on the table with a petulant pout—and perhaps a little more force than is necessary.

Laranthir picks it up, bringing it close to his face to examine. “Fascinating. This little thing can rip a hole in the fabric of time and space?”

“Put that back,” Roza snaps, something acrid rising in his throat. “It’s mine.”

Laranthir raises his eyebrows. Then his expression relaxes, and he chuckles. “You’ve landed yourself a jealous one, Trahearne.”

Roza bristles. Trahearne chuckles back, and says, _“Oh, I know. Although I think he is perhaps a little put out by the fact that his prank didn’t work.”_

“It _was_ a mean little prank.” Laranthir spins around in his stool, facing away from Roza. He is still holding the communicator. “Risky, however, counting on your silence and my gullibility. I’d say he deserves whatever fallout he has earned.”

Roza scowls, mood souring quickly. ‘ _Oh, I know’?_ What is that supposed to mean? Laranthir notices and gives him a pointed look, as if to emphasize his point.

 _“It feels good to not be on the receiving end, for once.”_ Trahearne sighs in contentment. _“Come, Laranthir—regale me with embarrassing tales of his social misfortune before he confiscates the communicator.”_

“He’ll have to kill me and pry it off my corpse.” Laranthir grins. “Although he’d probably enjoy that.”

That stings more than it should. Roza grits his teeth, getting up in one stiff movement. Fine. Laranthir can steal _his_ lover for the day, why not? He can take the clothes off Roza’s back if he wants those as well.

“No, you two can have a ball with each other,” he snaps as Laranthir glances at him, attention drawn. “Take all week if you have to. I’ll leave you to it, in fact! So you can gossip in _private_.”

He stalks to the door. He hears a puzzled “ _Roz—”_ before he rips through it, storming out of the house.

He tells himself that the bitter thing curdling in his stomach is anger. He didn’t think he’d—he shouldn’t have to—

He doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

~*~

It is late night by the time he pulls himself together enough to consider returning.

He feels ridiculous about it, which is half the reason he waits so long in the first place. That was stupid. It was incredibly juvenile, and so, so stupid. What was he thinking, stomping off in a huff like a bratty child? No wonder Laranthir hasn’t come to sea—

No, Roza can take ownership for his own actions now. He hasn’t been Laranthir’s—he hasn’t been _anyone’s_ responsibility for years. He has himself to look out for, and he has been doing it just fine. Except… now there is Trahearne as well. Trahearne, who might have a problem with his isolationist tendencies. Trahearne, who is probably worried about him right now.

Roza slumps down further against the trunk at his back. He should not be doing this, dragging Trahearne down with his moods even after death. Yet he has always done it to his friends—they say they are concerned and that they care, but Roza can see how much of a burden he is at times. So what had made him think he could avoid doing it to Trahearne as well? Fool. Weak, selfish fool.

He inhales deeply, letting it out as a shaky sigh. There is no point in delaying much longer. He will just make things worse. He gets up reluctantly, brushing the dirt off his skirt. He will have to have steeled himself for rebuke and reproach by the time he arrives at Laranthir’s house. It is fine. He knows he is at fault; the least he can do is be mature about accepting it.

His footsteps are silent in the moss. It is strangely quiet for the Grove—perhaps it truly _is_ late. He feels as if he is a ghost—a feeling that is becoming more and more familiar as of late. The fact that the norn of the Far Shiverpeaks have taken to calling him by his years-old title—Wraith—has only added to the smoke sticking in his mind.

As he approaches Laranthir’s house, he notices with a pang that the door has been fixed. Has he really been away for so long that a shaper has come and gone? He peels it open slowly, deciding not to sound the chimes this time. Not at this hour. He does not have to be obnoxious about _everything_.

Laranthir isn’t sleeping in his hammock, like Roza thought he would be. He is sitting at the table, head bowed. He glances up as Roza steps in, and instantly stiffens.

Roza gives him a miniscule, guilty smile, readying himself to be blamed and shamed. “Hello,” he says. “Sorry about the door.”

“Roza.” Laranthir inhales sharply. In two long, sudden strides he is in front of him, and before Roza knows what is happening he is being engulfed in a vine-crushing embrace. He closes his eyes, instinctively revelling in the contact despite what he knows will follow.

 _“Roza? You’re back?”_ Trahearne’s voice comes from Laranthir’s waist. He sounds relieved. _“Thank the Pale Tree.”_

“We were so worried about you.” Laranthir pulls him back by the shoulder to look him over. His eyes shine, dark and concerned.

Roza’s head is swimming. _We?_ But Laranthir had…

No. He is being foolish. “I know,” he says, barely stumbling over the words. He bows his head. “I am sorry. I did not mean to be such a cause of concern.” This much? Certainly not.

“I am only glad you came back before dawn.” Laranthir hugs him again, and Roza is too hazy to process his own reaction to it. “I truly did think you would leave for at least a week. It is a good thing I was wrong.”

 _“Laranthir caught me up. I hadn’t realized you have been spending most of your time away from me alone.”_ Trahearne matches his tone. _“I thought at the very least you had a home in the Grove.”_

Roza hunches his shoulders together. He is trying his best to resist leaning into Laranthir’s arms, which are still halfway around him. “I’m sorry,” he repeats quietly.

“None of that.” Laranthir squeezes his arm, then gently pulls him to the table, where half of a dinner for two lies uneaten in pots and bowls. He goes without resistance. “Come. Have you eaten at all since you left?”

Roza’s eyes dart away. “I am not hungry,” he answers evasively.

“Eat,” Laranthir says sternly. “I am not letting you leave this table until you have finished everything on it.”

_“That sounds like a serious threat. I’d listen to it, if I were you.”_

Roza slowly slides atop a stool, telling himself that they are being fond, not firm. He is trying to rationalize it in his mind when something slides across the table towards him, blinking him out of his thoughts.

It is the communicator. “I think this belongs best with you,” Laranthir says. “Not that I don’t appreciate Trahearne’s company. But as you said, it is yours.”

Roza stares at it, flexing his fingers. “I am sorry for being so immature earlier,” he says lowly, deciding to precipitate the scolding if it will come rather than wait for it. “I should not have run off like a—” Fool. Idiot. His hand clenches. “—petulant child.”

“We should not have spoken of you so,” Laranthir returns near immediately. “It’s alright, Roza. I am just glad you’re safe.”

Roza’s breath hitches. He smoothens it. “No, really. That was…” And no wonder Trahearne wants nothing more than to talk to someone else about how awful he is, because he really is, isn’t he? “I…”

“Roza.” Laranthir’s hand covers his, and Roza looks up to see concern still writ across his face. “Truly, it is alright. I am sorry for upsetting you.”

“It’s not that hard nowadays, is it?” Roza says bitterly. “You should not have to tread on flowers around me. It is my own fault for overreacting.”

“It is your fault,” Laranthir confirms. Roza’s stomach drops, but he continues, “But only because you have been sleeping and eating very little, sequestering yourself Pale Mother knows where, and constantly letting your thoughts cycle into negativity instead of airing them out. Of course you are irritable as a result.”

Roza stares down at his plate. He pops a bread roll into his mouth.

 _“I think that was perhaps a little harsh,”_ Trahearne says placidly. _“Roza, I believe what Laranthir is trying to say is that he is worried about you.”_

Roza winces. Laranthir replies, “Sometimes a stubborn horse needs a little kick. You can’t see it, but he is eating now.”

Roza looks up into steady grey eyes, and then away. “He’s right, Trahearne,” he mutters. He can feel the gentle affection behind Laranthir’s words, and it is enough. “I am not as fragile as I used to be. I’ll… be alright.”

He hears a quiet sigh. _“I suppose I’ll have to accept that as the truth. I wish I could feel the Dream again so I could check for myself, if I’m being honest. It won’t ever feel right, being around you without it.”_

“I wish I could sense you in it too,” Roza mumbles. He doesn’t say anything more, because Laranthir is standing right there. What is worse is the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips, small and familiar.

Although now he stands, pushing up off the table. “I will turn in for the night,” he says. “Roza, you are welcome—encouraged, even—to make use of the extra hammock when you have finished eating. Trahearne, I want your assurance that from now on, you will yell at him when he needs it.”

A soft chuckle. _“I am beginning to see my role here. Fear not, my friend.”_

Roza clears his throat and crooks two fingers, averting his gaze. Laranthir smiles, bends down, and gently wraps his arms around him.

Then he bends down further, towards the communicator. “He just asked for a hug,” he says loudly.

Roza jumps. “Laran—!” He shoves him away as his glow pulses furiously. Laranthir laughs, darting backwards.

Trahearne’s warm laugh comes through as well. _“Good. Give him one from me as well.”_

Laranthir obeys, even if Roza only sits there stiffly, embarrassed. Then he bids him a gentle goodnight, and climbs into his hammock.

 _”Roza.”_ Trahearne speaks again after a few minutes. _“Aurene says it is safe for you to visit soon, if you would like to in the morning.”_

Roza straightens up, alert despite the weariness the hour brings. “I can go right now.”

 _“In the morning,”_ Trahearne repeats firmly. _“Right now, you will finish your food and go to sleep.”_

“Oh, is that an order?” Roza mutters. He reaches for the last bread roll.

Trahearne snorts. _“Hah, it can be. Maybe what you really need is someone to pull rank on you again. You probably made poor Laranthir wither from stress when he was no longer able to.”_

“You did,” Laranthir confirms distantly.

“Go to _sleep_ , you overbearing asparagus,” Roza retorts, half worried. Staying up so late cannot be good for him. “Or I will make you.”

_“See? If you can say that to him, you can say it to yourself.”_

Roza sighs, but nods, forgetting that Trahearne cannot see him. “Fine,” he concedes. He sends a quick pulse of his magic Laranthir’s way, prematurely making good on his threat. He lowers his voice as an additional precaution. “I will sleep here for the night. But I am going to you first thing in the morning.”

_“After breakfast.”_

Roza groans softly. “Trahearne.”

_“Roza. I will always be here, my love. But I cannot take care of you, so you will have to do it for me. Alright?”_

The ‘my love’ instantly melts Roza’s resolve. “Alright,” he mutters, cheeks warming faintly. “I… I will try. For you.”

 _“That is all I ask.”_ Trahearne’s voice feels soft and comfortable. _“I will speak to you in the morning, Roza. Goodnight. I love you.”_

The warmth spreads from the inside of his chest out towards his fingers and toes. “I love you too,” he stumbles, tripping over the words. “Goodnight, Trahearne.”

The communicator clicks off from Trahearne’s end, cutting the connection. Roza tugs it towards himself as he finishes his meal, as if through it, even across time and space, he might be able to feel his presence.

~*~

There are a handful of other people Trahearne wants to talk to, a list that Roza manages to whittle down with warnings of the secrecy of the technology they are using being compromised. Still on that list after a long period of negotiation are, most notably, a few of Trahearne’s siblings.

“I cannot simply go around chatting up firstborn,” Roza hisses, in an attempt to explain why he thinks that is an unreasonable request.

_“Why not? You can talk to me just fine.”_

“It is not like you and Dagonet,” Roza groans. “Aife is travelling somewhere, Niamh I am fairly certain hates me, Caithe is… well, Caithe, and the rest of them I cannot simply go up to and introduce myself before saying that I’ve only come to visit because their dead brother wants to speak with them from beyond the grave.”

There is a pause. Trahearne’s voice comes out curious. _“You’ve spoken with Dagonet since?”_

“Ah.” Roza winces. “Yes. I had to. He stationed himself in Orr to finish your work, you see, and I happened to be looking for… Well, it’s a long story. But it actually went less awkwardly than you might think.”

_“That is good! He quite liked you, if I recall. I think he appreciated your enthusiasm for his treatises. Few do.”_

“Yes! The humans have terrible taste.” Roza’s keenness gets a hold of him for a fleeting moment. “I’ve written him a few times, mostly to discuss his publications. He dedicated a book to me!” He preens. He is still proud of that. “I have a first edition, of course.”

 _“That was nice of him.”_ Trahearne sounds fond. _“I am certain your passion greatly inspires his.”_

“Oh, I am just one fan.” Roza flutters his hand dismissively. He lasts all of three calm seconds before he bursts out, “Do you want to know what it is about?”

Trahearne’s voice is soft. _“My dear Roza, I would love nothing more.”_

~*~

There is one person Trahearne wants to speak to from a more professional standpoint. Roza allows it mostly because he understands; if he died and someone else took his job, he would also want to check in to see how badly they were botching it.

“He is not _you_ ,” he tells Trahearne as he strides through the old, familiar halls of Fort Trinity. It barely hurts being here, anymore. Hurt cannot come if it is avoided. “Of course, no one can be you. But… he isn’t doing that badly, I suppose.”

 _“He is much more suited for the job than I was,”_ Trahearne returns. _“Even you are. I find my role lies best as an advisor and a scholar, not a leader.”_

“You undersell yourself.” Roza raps on Tra—on Logan’s office door. “There is no one else I would rather serve. I suppose that is partly why I left.” Mostly. Almost entirely.

“Come in!” Logan calls, in his bumbling, loud, human fashion. Roza enters gracefully.

“Logan,” he greets, because he cannot call him _Marshal_ , and he does not think he will ever be able to. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“For you, Commander? Always.” Logan gives him a half charming, crooked smile. Roza can almost see sometimes—in the distance, if he squints—why the humans think he is attractive. He has too much flesh and too few leaves for his taste, however. He also is not Trahearne, which nixes the entire thought experiment.

Roza presses his fingertips together, absently scanning the room. It is very different than how Trahearne had it. His window chair is gone. “Logan. Hello, greetings and all that, I am doing fine, you are doing fine. Now how should I put this? Hm…”

He decides to try for tact—perhaps Trahearne will be proud if he can pull it off. He can soften Logan up first with an appeal to empathy (the strange kind that the flesh races claim to have, not the endlessly more useful sylvari kind).

“I would like to talk to you about a personal matter that requires a certain degree of discretion,” he begins. “I have gone to very few people about this.”

Logan looks surprised, then touched. He smiles. “Well, I’m flattered I made the list.”

“Ah… yes. Because you are like my…” Roza makes an ambiguous gesture with his hands, “Male parental figure in a flesh household that requires children,” he decides on. He puts on an expectant expression. That is usually a good thing, right?

“Oh! That’s, uh…” Logan blushes, ducking his head. “Um, thanks. You know, I guess you do kind of feel like my rebellious teenage kid.”

Roza is not in double digits yet, nor is he rebelling against anything. Thorns, this is why he usually cuts straight to the point. “What? Never mind, this was idiotic. I lied. I am just trying to transition into the fact that there is someone I have with me who would like to speak with you.”

Logan’s expression catches on something more unflattering, and Roza forges past it. “Do you remember what it was like with Gwen?” he asks.

“Really awkward,” says Logan.

Roza smiles. “Excellent! Since the memory is still so fresh, I am sure you won’t mind feeling like that again.”

“Uh huh.” Logan gives him a dubious look. He cranes his neck, trying to check behind him. “Did you find another dead ancestor of mine? Maybe I should have visiting hours for them.”

“No,” Roza says. To his communicator, “Go on, say something. This conversation is going nowhere fruitful.”

_“Oh, are we not doing cues? I was waiting for… Never mind. Hello, Captain Tha… Logan. How are things?”_

Logan starts. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” Roza says impatiently. Is it truly difficult to digest this quickly and efficiently? “Hurry up and get over yourself, please. He would like to speak with you.”

“Right, sorry. You sure that’s Trahearne? Or did you just, uh…”

Roza, who has been idly looking around and critiquing the décor, stops and fixes Logan with a hard stare. “Did I just what?” he enunciates. “Exactly?”

Logan winces. “Um, nothing! Nothing. Of course that’s Trahearne. It sounds just like him.”

Roza stares him down. “That’s because it is him. Logan.”

“Right.” Logan scratches the back of his head, looking away. “It’s just, I know you never really… came to terms with his death. No one would blame you if you’re trying to get over it in, uh, unconventional ways. I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Roza breathes in slowly, trying to keep calm. “I understand your concern, even if it manifests as unwarranted skepticism,” he says crisply. “But I can guarantee you that this is in fact the real Trahearne. He’s still dead. He’s just… accessible to me now.”

Logan’s expression eases. “I know you’ve been having a bit of a hard time lately,” he says in a more private tone. He raises his hands to placate, and Roza’s hackles immediately rise. “I’m sorry for doubting you. But if things are getting difficult for you, and you ever want to talk…”

“Then I won’t go to you,” Roza snaps. “Trahearne, _say_ something, please, before he starts questioning the existence of the room we’re standing in.”

 _“I—Yes—of course.”_ Trahearne sounds guilty. He clears his throat. _“Logan, I appreciate your looking out for my comm… for Roza. But rest assured that he certainly isn’t making this up. Let me think… Ah. Do you remember the incident with the pineapple and that one Priory magister?”_

Logan’s eyes widen. “I’m under oath to deny that ever happened. But… I might hypothetically remember something, yeah.”

Roza frowns. “What is this incident you are referring to?” _He_ does not remember.

_“You were away—It was during Scarlet’s attacks on the cities. Well, Logan?”_

Logan lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Six, I guess it really is you,” he says ( _Five_ , Roza corrects mentally). “Alright then. I’ll happily fill you in on anything you want to know. Although if you want more current updates on Jormag, the commander is your sylvari.”

 _“He already is,”_ Trahearne says. Roza, not expecting that, blinks once, and then flushes lightly. _“No, I just want to know how my Pact has been doing. We put a lot of work and effort into it.”_

 _We_. Roza’s gaze flicks away. He had told Trahearne he had left the Pact after his death, but… it is still the Pact they founded together. The Pact they raised from nothing. And without Trahearne, it is…

It is the Pact without Trahearne. It is barely better than Roza without Trahearne.

Logan smiles warmly. “I understand,” he says. “It still has your mark all over it. You left big shoes to fill, you know, but I’m trying my best.”

_“This may be hard to believe, but Roza says you’ve been doing an exceptional job so far. I heard about what happened with Kralkatorrik! And I had the unfortunate experience of being on the other end of that whole affair—but I digress. Tell me how the assault went.”_

“I’ll, ah… go for a walk around the fort,” Roza interrupts carefully. He sets the communicator on Logan’s desk. “I need some time to think, if you don’t mind.”

“Take all the time you need.” Logan reaches forwards to clasp his forearm, and he returns the gesture belatedly, caught off guard. “I hope you know you can visit more often, Roza. Just to chat, or if you ever need me for anything. And I do mean anything.”

Roza coughs awkwardly. “Thank you, Logan. I… will keep that in mind.”

He leaves the office. Later that evening, when he is lying faceup on his old bed in his old room, and it is just him and Trahearne, he lets himself… think.

He thinks about a lot.

 _“I have been thinking. Why do all your friends act as if you are a hermit?”_ Trahearne asks bluntly, plucking him out of his mind.

Roza winces. “Don’t pull your punches,” he mutters.

_“They clearly miss you, and you clearly miss then. And do not faff around some fabricated excuse, Roza. Tell me the truth.”_

Roza sighs. In truth, he knew it was only a matter of time before this would come up. There is no point in avoiding it any longer, not with Trahearne. After all, if Roza cannot even confide in _him_ , who else is there for him to speak to?

“I feel as if I am wasting away,” he answers simply. “And that if I stay by myself for long enough… perhaps one day I shall simply disappear into the wind and the snow and be no more.”

Silence for a long moment. Roza closes his eyes, wondering what Trahearne is thinking.

 _“Do you want to?”_ is what he eventually says.

Roza gives a small shrug. “A little bit,” he admits. “It is easier than making the effort to keep in contact with everyone. Doing this with you has been the most I have talked to them in months.”

Another beat of silence, but shorter. _“Do you feel as if it is partly because of the appeal of being with me?”_ Trahearne asks. Then, _“Be honest.”_

“I don’t know,” Roza confesses. “But I think… even if I were dead, the feeling wouldn’t go away. Did your problems go away after you died?”

A short, harsh laugh. _“No.”_

“There you go,” Roza murmurs. He turns on his side, tugging the blanket up over his body. “Trahearne, I think I shall go to sleep now, if that is alright with you. I have been quite tired today.”

 _“I would not keep you from getting rest.”_ Trahearne’s voice softens. _“Goodnight, my love. I will speak to you in the morning.”_

Roza warms. Trahearne always bids him goodnight in the same way, and it always has the same effect on him. “Wait,” he urges before the connection cuts off. “Can you sing to me?”

The softness bends and gels. _“Of course,”_ Trahearne concedes, barely audible. There is but a short hesitation before he begins, humming the beginning notes of a familiar tune.

Roza closes his eyes. He drifts off slowly, the sound of Trahearne’s voice lulling him to sleep like the distant echo of a memory that once was.

~*~

_“But I don’t get why you won’t! I thought you were cool, Commander Boyfriend. You don’t have to be so, like, Treehern about it.”_

Roza sighs. “I am not going to kill a puppy for you, Gretchen,” he says.

 _“Why not?! My sister always said you killed puppies._ ”

Roza hears a muffled chuckle from Trahearne. He doesn’t laugh.

“Maybe your sister shouldn’t judge people before getting to know them,” he says evenly. “I’m cutting the comm now. I don’t want anyone to overhear us.”

He clicks it off before he gets a reply. It isn’t a _lie_ , exactly—there is no sound more noticeably shrill than that of a whiny child demanding a pet. The blessed silence certainly seems to agree.

He glances around the embellished establishment he is in with a curled lip. He has left Eirwen outside, but she will get increasingly restless the longer he takes, so he has an incentive to get this over with quickly. It is a bad idea. Kasmeer had been a good idea. Taimi had been unavoidable, but not a terrible idea in concept. _This_ is a bad idea.

“I am looking for someone who frequents this… lovely place,” he tells a mustachioed man who appears to be working here in some capacity. “Sylvari, terribly thorny, awful attitude but well-spoken, looks a bit like a cactus. Sound familiar?”

The man looks relieved. “Oh, are you here to kick him out?” he asks. “He’s in the back. Please make him leave.”

“I’ve come to pay him a fond family visit,” Roza says, striding past him.

He turns the communicator back on before he enters the back room. “Silence until it is just us and him,” he murmurs to it. He is grateful when it is only Trahearne’s low voice that agrees.

Canach is indeed in inside, from the looks of it swindling some poor wretch out of their hard-earned money. He glances up automatically when Roza enters, then groans, face contorting into a grimace.

“No,” he says.

“Dearest brother,” Roza begins.

“Get out.” Canach points at the door he just came through. “I mean it, Commander. _You_ may be unfamiliar with the concept, but I am on something called a _break_. That means no.”

“I’m not here to recruit you, you imbecile,” Roza snaps. “I just want a moment of your time. You can go back to stealing this person’s money when I am done.”

Said person makes a strangled noise. Canach crosses his arms, raising a sharp eyebrow. “Is that how you think this works?” he challenges. “Just because you want something and you just so happen to have a dragon to toss at people, that suddenly means you can have it?”

Roza is quickly losing his patience. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am seeing someone, and I want you to meet him and preferably approve, although I do not know _why_ I thought it was a good idea to even tell you in the first place.” He glares. “There, will you listen to me now?”

Canach stares at him. His shock jitters around them, spiky and unpleasant. “ _You?”_ he blusters in what would ordinarily be a rather amusing display of ineloquence. “ _You_ met someone?!”

Roza’s glare darkens. He turns to the other person at the table. “We will speak of this only in private,” he orders, staring them down.

They bang their knee on the table in their hurry to get out of their chair. Roza’s eyes follow them as they scramble out of the room with the fervour of someone with a sand lion nipping at their heels.

He closes the door with a dismissive wave of shadow—the room is dark—before taking the empty seat. He sits neatly, gazing at Canach.

Canach frowns back. “Are you certain this is a good idea?” he asks. “It wasn’t terribly long ago that you were still mooning over Trahearne.”

Roza grits his teeth. “I was not _mooning_ over him,” he defends. “I was simply reminiscing.”

“You cried all over me,” Canach says.

Roza clenches his jaw. “For fuck’s—alright, you can speak now. Before he says something he will come to regret.”

 _“Perhaps it is for the best,”_ Trahearne agrees as Canach’s frown turns confused. _“I do not want to be an unwitting eavesdropper on a conversation I am clearly not supposed to be privy to. Hello, Canach. I remember you.”_

Canach says nothing for a long, shocked moment. It is not positive shock. Tension stretches to fill the room, thin and tenebrous. Roza glares at him through it, silently daring him to voice his thoughts.

Canach looks him in the eye. Roza has never been able to intimidate him—he considers it one of his greatest failures. He holds the stare.

“This is a terrible idea, and you know it.” Canach says finally.

Roza’s hand slowly curls. “I did not come here to be rebuked,” he replies, waspish.

“Then why come at all? You could not have honestly expected that I would congratulate you and say I was happy for you.” Canach crosses his arms. “Fine. If you need someone who won’t hold your hand and pretend this is a good thing to spare your feelings, I can do that. If you need someone to tell you that you are an utter fool, I can do that too.”

“I don’t,” Roza says sharply. “I truly was just seeking your approval and perhaps even well-wishes. Is that so hard to believe?”

“From you? Yes.”

Roza scowls. Canach scowls back.

 _“If I may,”_ Trahearne offers cautiously _, “Canach, I understand why the idea seems daunting. I will admit that I had my own reservations at first. But there is less harm in this than it may seem.”_

“Why? Because he already has one foot in the grave, so encouraging him to throw the other in as well seems like less of a leap than it would be for most people?” Canach says archly. “Truly, your wisdom and insight are unparalleled, Firstborn.”

“Do not speak to him like that,” Roza snaps. “Don’t you dare.”

 _“Roza, it’s alright.”_ Trahearne’s interruption stays the clawed edges of the fight they can both feel curling to rear up underneath their words. _“He makes a good point, and it would be foolish to dismiss it. United together, remember?”_

Roza realizes that both his hands have tightened into fists. He reluctantly unclenches them. “I came here for support, not _this_ ,” he mutters, lifting his lip over his incisor.

 _“His stance is a necessary one,”_ Trahearne replies. _“It is wise to voice doubts rather than bury them and let them fester. They are there for a reason.”_

Canach is watching him carefully, some wariness staying his tongue. Roza glares at him idly. “I do not appreciate the implication that my judgment is clouded.”

_“But it is, as is everyone’s about their own situation. To say otherwise would be ignorant. You say you do not know why you came to him, since you knew he would not approve. But is that, in and of itself, not why?”_

Roza looks down. Canach is still silent, his chest rising and falling in careful breaths. Roza tracks it for a few seconds, then slowly flexes his fingers.

“Fine. But in small doses,” he gives in. He makes a disgusted face, disbelieving about the fact that he is letting this go. “ _Small_ doses,” he snaps at Canach.

“Hmph.” His prickly brother is sporting a similar expression. “Fine. I suppose I will give the firstborn the benefit of the doubt. He has more strength of mind than I gave him credit for—I still remember Mordremoth.”

Roza shudders at the memory. “I try not to,” he mutters. “Fine. Great. We’re all getting along swimmingly, then.”

Trahearne lets out a small, relieved chuckle. _“We do not have to. But I would rather not be a source of conflict between the two of you. That being said, Canach, I appreciate your willingness to put some faith in me, even if very little. I will do my best to earn your trust.”_

“Don’t get all mushy on me, Firstborn.” Canach rolls his eyes dramatically. The tension in the room diffuses somewhat, and Roza leans back with a soundless sigh. They will be alright. More or less.

_“Um, I thought you only had one boyfriend, Treehern?”_

Roza’s eyes slowly slip shut in resignation. Canach says, “Who in the name of the Pale Tree’s thorny behind is _that?”_

He can practically hear Trahearne’s wince. _“No, Gretchen, I do. That is Roza’s friend, Canach.”_

“Hold on, nosy little urchin.” Canach holds up a finger and a half. “You thought… me and the _firstborn?_ Oh, mulch.” He sounds positively appalled. “What an utterly despicable concept. I have _taste_ , thank you very much.”

“Well, nobody asked you,” Roza snaps, leaves immediately pricking up from their stems. “So you can go and shove your secondborn insecurity up your arsehole.”

There is a pause. _“I thought you just said they’re friends, Treehern,”_ says Gretchen.

“We are when the moon is blue, little urchin,” Canach replies. “Wait. Are you dead, is that it? Are you a dead little girl?”

 _“Stop saying that! I’m not little!”_ she screeches. _“I’m elev—twelve years old!”_

That apparently isn’t very old—although it is older than _Roza_ —because Canach makes a face like he has just tasted toxic cured meat from the bottom of the Maguuma Jungle.

“Thorns,” he says. “I must admit, I am morbidly curious. What was it? Krait? Risen? Mordrem, perhaps? I don’t know when you died.”

 _“I was trying to go talk to Commander Boyfriend, but then, like, my house fell on me,”_ says Gretchen.

“Mm.” Roza winces.

“ _Commander Boyf_ —I’m sorry. Oh, this is delightful.” Canach lets out an airy little excuse for a laugh that suggests it isn’t very delightful at all. “Roza, there is a dead child who is inserting herself into your relationship with Trahearne because she has inexplicably _attached_ herself to you. Never mind. I suddenly support this endeavour fully.”

 _“I’m not a child! Stop it stop it stop it!”_ Gretchen shrieks. Roza winces, holding the communicator at arm’s length.

 _“Gretchen—no, he doesn’t mean…”_ He can Trahearne trying to calm her down. It seems like a futile endeavor. Roza shuts the connection off after a minute of deliberation. It is probably for the best.

Canach’s teeth are showing. “Wait, so how does this all work? Can you even physically touch him?” He leans forwards, suddenly brimming with newfound, intrusive curiosity. “Can you have _sex_? I can’t imagine... Is it even possible for him to get it up?”

“We are _not_ having this conversation,” Roza hisses, glaring at him. “No. Absolutely not. I refuse to engage.”

“Is that a no?” Canach’s taunting grin widens. Roza wants to carve it off his face. “Oh, that is _perfect_. After all those years of longing… all those _lingering moments_ …”

“We can have sex,” Roza snaps, gesturing with the communicator. He doesn’t register it slipping in his grasp. “You know what? I intend to, in fact! Just because I do not desire him doesn’t mean I cannot sleep with him! And I will! Maybe I’ll go do it right after this! Hm? What do you think about that? I’ll even leave this thing here so you can listen in, if you’re so _interested.”_

He has risen out of his seat, and he collapses back down in a huff, kicking his legs up over the table. It is only then that he hears a distant, Mist-tinged cough.

 _“I, ah,”_ says Trahearne, _“Gather I wasn’t meant to hear that.”_

Canach makes a half pained, half mirthful noise. “Ubv—well—have fun,” he blusters. He winces. “You know, Roza… if you truly do not want to, and he tries to pressure y—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Roza seethes.

Canach sinks into his chair. “Right,” he says. “Uh. You can go now. Do tell my monetarily gifted flesh bag to come back, will you?”

Roza takes his legs off the table, content in having successfully upturned the conversation. He rises from his chair. “Fetch them yourself, dear brother. Goodbye—ah, Mother doesn’t love you, you have a hideous soul not worthy of reanimation, and I hope your dreams are sour.”

“Same to you.” Canach sounds relieved at the return to normalcy. “Now get out.”

Roza blows him a kiss, then drifts out the door. Eirwen, who has somehow managed to get inside the casino, screeches and barrels towards him, knocking over furniture and terrified patrons on her warpath.

“Hello, snowdrop,” Roza croons as she rubs her head against his vigorously, prickling his bark with static. He dares a glance around whilst trying to keep still, and sees that the inside of the building is an absolute mess of ruined decorations, displaced tables, and toppled chairs. Oops. “Yes, I _know_ , I know. Do not worry, we are leaving.”

 _“Sometimes I am grateful that I am stuck here.”_ Trahearne finally decides to speak up, close enough to be heard over the agitated shouts and calls for the guards.

Eirwen stands over Roza and spreads her wings threateningly, hissing at anyone who gets close. He walks slowly towards the exit, one hand buried in her feathers .

“You’re missing out,” he says serenely. “Hello there, sir guard. I am leaving this establishment—I fully intend to pay for the damages, worry not—but my griffon is hungry and you look tasty. You can stay there if you’d like, or you can let me go. It is your choice.”

It is a lie, but it is an entertaining one, and he adds a touch of fear behind his words in case it does not work. They stumble out of the way and he chuckles, amused.

 _“I will… take your word for it,”_ Trahearne says.

~*~

 _“My Champion Roza.”_ Aurene’s voice sounds in his mind as a now familiar portal manifests between two shimmering, iridescent crystals. She has decided, after a long period of vacillation, to merge both her old and new way of addressing him. He thinks it is utterly endearing. _“The scenery on the other side this time may be different than what you are used to.”_

“Did Trahearne finally leave that wretched desert?” Roza asks. “Did you know, I told him there are much prettier places to visit in the Mists, but he said he had a favourite rock there that he didn't want to leave behind. A rock!”

Aurene chuckles. _“I helped him transport his rock.”_

Roza shakes his head, even as a—lovesick, because he is a fool for his Trahearne, even when he is attaching himself to inanimate objects—smile spreads across his face. He has been smiling a lot recently; almost as much as he used to before—before everything. It is a little terrifying.

He steps through the portal, closing his eyes in an attempt to displace the initial gut-clench of nausea that always accompanies the crossing. When he opens them, he blinks a few times, looking around in interest. He is most certainly not in a desert. Verdant green grass covers the ground, and the sky overhead is a warm, teal blue. Trees intertwine with strange, curving stone structures that twist and bend to their own gravity, and Roza swears he can hear a stream somewhere, although he cannot see one. Right in front of him is—

“Roza!” Trahearne’s tall form and beaming smile are visible for about two seconds before Roza is enfolded in a mostly-solid, tingling embrace. He returns it eagerly, pressing himself into Trahearne with a deep inhale. Oh, but he has been feeling so lonely as of late.

“How I have missed you.” Trahearne echoes his thoughts. Roza feels a kiss press to the base of his branches. “I hope you’ll excuse me if I am somewhat overly affectionate today. Gretchen is a small person to hug, and even she has been rushing off to explore. Push me away if you must—I will understand.”

He chuckles, warm and familiar. Roza stifles a protest at the idea of pushing him away, and arches on his tiptoes to kiss him.

His lips meet a smile. “I don’t mind when it is you,” he says to it.

The smile grows. “I am honoured. But I will still be mindful of your personal space. I know you don’t like it being encroached on.”

Trahearne releases him from the embrace, stepping back. A strange tension tightens in Roza’s head. No, he is not making himself clear enough. He hasn’t been…

“Do you remember when we went to visit Laranthir, about a month ago?” he tries with a half smile.

Trahearne nods. Roza says, “That was, ah, the last time someone touched me. Aha.”

He ducks his head, giving the grassy ground a false little titter. “Which... I do not know if that is a long time, or long enough that it is worthy to feel, ah, odd about it. But before that it was—well, before that it was him too, but before _that_ it was Canach of all people, and you know he really is a terrible hugger, I swear he nearly broke my neck—”

The embrace returns, and Roza sighs in relief, dropping his head onto Trahearne’s chest. Completely worth the effort of a few embarrassing words, in his opinion.

“You know, you do sometimes say something in fifty words when you could say it in ten,” Trahearne tells him. He sounds worried for some reason, so Roza only murmurs a reassurance, trailing a hand up his back.

This time it almost lasts for long enough, and when it is over Trahearne takes his hand. Roza leans into him as he is led away with growing purpose.

“Aurene found something here,” Trahearne is saying, “And she said she thought it would suit me. You are not the only one who can teleport around through magical dragon portals, you know. Although Gretchen got sick and dry heaved from the nausea, poor thing. Not that you heard it from me. Luckily, I had just been granted the tools to care for her. Ah—it is just beyond this archway. Clear your thoughts.”

“What?” says Roza. They have stopped. He peers through the strange arched stone structure in front of them, but can see nothing beyond it save more grass. The archway itself, however… “Oh! What are these runes? Tell me about them.”

Trahearne grins. “I knew you would appreciate this place as much as I do. But there will be time for that later. Go on through. And really, clear your thoughts. It is less of a headache that way.”

Glamour magic of some sort, then. Roza’s mind has been… occupied, as of late, but he does his best to release it, licking his lips.

He steps through and immediately winces as the mental feedback from having completely failed to prepare himself for the strength of the cloaking spell hits him. This is… powerful magic. And old as well, from the taste of it, although everything is old in the Mists. As the pain clears, he sees in front of him what had not been there before: a tall cottage of strange stone, constructed in the same twisting fashion as the archway and the other structures littering the area.

“A house!” he says, surprised.

Trahearne laughs at his reaction. “Yes. It is the long-abandoned home of a powerful caster who we believe wielded something similar to mesmer magic. Apparently they did not exist in Tyria, nor were they of a race we are familiar with, although,” He gestures to the both of them, “One could have said the same of us thirty years ago. From what I have gathered, they were bipedal, with opposable thumbs. There are indications that they may have been reptilian in nature, which is very interesting, although I admit not my area of expertise.”

“You have a mystery to keep you occupied now,” Roza observes. He stares up at the house—the front doorway seems a little tall for their height, although that could just be because he is… because sometimes, doorways are a little tall for him. “Are you sure it’s been abandoned?”

Trahearne nods, taking his hand once more to walk him to the entrance. “I think it has been for at least a few hundred years, or the equivalent thereof for the Mists. Aurene has been helping me make it a little more habitable, although since I _am_ dead, there is little reason to. I think she likes having a side project, however. I will not fault her for it—she could do with a hobby.”

Roza smiles automatically, remembering something. “You know, when she was a hatchling she had this ball—this little red thing—that she absolutely _adored_. It was about the size of my head, and covered in teeth marks by the time I travelled to Elona.” He gives a fond little laugh. “I think it left me with a minor injury or two after a few particularly vigorous games of catch. But I couldn’t say no to her.”

When he looks back at Trahearne, it is to a gentle, affectionate expression that he can finally decipher, now after all these years. He tugs at a branch on his head and glances away, a little embarrassed from it.

“You love her very much,” Trahearne says in a lower tone, “Don’t you?”

“Of course.” Roza flutters his hand. “And I am glad she has found some way to occupy her time now. I think she overworks herself, you know. She is so young yet—she grew up far too fast. She should not be shouldering this much responsibility, if you ask me, but I suppose fate is cruel.”

“It is amazing, the way those we love can spur us to have one-sided insights,” Trahearne says.

“Hm?” Roza does not know what that is supposed to mean. “Right. Now come, show me inside your stolen magic house. Isn’t there some human tradition that has to do with couples and thresholds…?”

He vaguely remembers Dagonet writing something about it. Trahearne stares at him and colours, which means he is half right, and half overstepping some social boundary in some way. He only grins, always delighted to stir up a conversation even if by accident.

“Right.” Trahearne clears his throat. “I suppose… yes. Stay still.”

Stay still? Roza puts his hands up, lips pursing in puzzlement. He certainly does not expect Trahearne to _pick him up_. He lets out a startled yelp, clinging on tightly as his legs are lifted into a gentle cradle.

“What are you _doing?”_ he yips.

Trahearne stares at him. His face is very close. “What you asked.”

“I certainly did not ask to be picked up as if I am some injured griffon hatchling.” Roza’s voice is a little pitchy, not that he would ever admit it. He stares down at the ground, grip around Trahearne’s neck tightening. It suddenly seems uncomfortably far away. “I can feel your measly scholar arms shaking, so don’t you dare drop me. Why are you so tall?”

He feels a laugh vibrate against his torso. “On the contrary, I think it is _you_ who are short,” Trahearne returns. His grip shifts, and he winces. “You are more cumbersome than I expected. I shall hurry this up.”

 _“Excuse me?”_ Roza squeaks as he is dipped to open the door.

“I mean because you are alive, and I am dead. Don’t get your roots in a twist.” It creaks open. Roza clutches onto Trahearne even tighter when he starts moving, fingers digging into the vines twisting up his neck. Usually he is _unconscious_ when people carry him. He thinks he prefers it that way.

(Possibly because his skirt has ridden up, and Trahearne’s hand is pressing into the flesh of his thigh—although thankfully there is still a thin barrier of cloth separating his touch. Roza does not know why he is so aware of it. Perhaps it really has been too long since they have sat with each other).

Trahearne’s very-close face looks at him expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”

Roza cranes his neck in one direction and then the other. The house looks like a house. He says, “I think, perhaps, that you really are looking for any excuse to put your hands all over me, which is a little grabby of you, if you ask me. Not that I mind. You know, you are lucky I do not mind! Because if it were anyone else I would be stabbing them or something right now, but with you it is different. I suppose. You always were very touchy with me, you know. You made me get accustomed to it—oh!” His eyes squint in accusation as his senseless ramble hones in on a purpose. “This is your fault. All of this,” He breaks one hand away from Trahearne’s neck for a terrifying second to gesture vaguely to himself, “Strange… _longing_. It didn’t start happening until after you died, so it is your fault—you should have not started touching me at all, or perhaps—perhaps stayed alive, how about that, so I wouldn’t have had to deal with—”

His voice starts to waver just as sweet lips cover his own, cutting him off. His mouth opens and his thoughts melt, dribbling out of his mind like wax softening from a rarely-lit candle.

“There we go,” the lips that stop kissing him murmur. They pause, as if waiting for something, but Roza is too hazy to do anything. “No, nothing? Have I actually found an effective way to silence you?”

Roza closes his eyes and seeks them out again. “Roza,” they say against him, and he does it once more.

Trahearne angles his head downwards, just enough that he cannot be kissed. “Roza, I am sorry for dying,” he says. He sounds as if he wants to say more.

A sharp spike of something still raw and unhealed flickers through Roza. He shakes his head. “I do not want to discuss that.”

“Alright.” Trahearne pauses, then kisses him again. He slowly releases him as he does so, and Roza finds himself an unfortunate victim of gravity—such as it exists here—forced to break away as he drops about a foot.

An amused smile bubbles across Trahearne’s mouth. “You really are short.”

“And you are lucky you are already dead, elsewise I would peel you alive for that comment.” Roza drifts away from him, glancing around. It does seem like a fairly normal, if empty, house. There is even a rug covering the floor. He pokes it with his toe experimentally. It shifts. It is a normal rug.

“Of course, dearheart.” Trahearne sounds amused. Something in Roza’s stomach jumps, and his gaze startles to his—marshal? Lover?—automatically, eyes wider than he would like.

Trahearne isn’t looking at him. “As you can see, this appears to be some sort of living area. There is a kitchen leading off from there,” he points, “And a bedroom upstairs. There is also a study of some sort in the basement, which I find to be a most interesting place, and I am sure you will as well. Come, let me give you a tour.”

He beckons, finally glancing back. His expression eases when he notices whatever unflattering equivalent Roza has on his face, and he smiles.

“Is everything alright?” he says in a lower voice. He approaches slowly. “Ah, you are caught on ‘dearheart,’ I imagine. Do you mind it?”

“I, um,” Roza stammers. He feels a flush warm his cheeks, and he digs his nails into his palm, willing it to leave. “Uh—No, not at all. I just didn’t expect it.”

Trahearne takes his hand. “I know you have never been in a relationship before,” he says. “We can take this as slowly as you like. If there is anything I do—even just using an endearment—that is too much for you…”

“No! No.” Roza tips his head up. “It is not too much. I am not made only of leaves. It is just, ah…” He scratches his cheek. “Lovers use that term.”

Trahearne’s lips quirk upwards. “Yes,” he says, amusement back in his tone.

Roza rolls his eyes. He cools himself with his magic. “You think it is so funny to stand here and laugh at me,” he mutters. “Alright, fine. I am fine. Take me on your tour.”

Trahearne smiles brightly, but he seems genuinely enthused. Roza squeezes his hand, charmed despite himself.

“This house is dead, like most of the other races’ homes tend to be,” Trahearne begins. “But I happen to know a lot about dead things, so…”

He chatters on. Roza listens attentively, enraptured by more than just his words.

~*~

They are sitting on a couch in the main room, pressed against each other. Roza is warm.

“I am warm,” he announces, breaking the silence.

Trahearne’s head lolls towards him. “Your hands are cool,” he responds. He strokes the right one with his thumb, as if to prove it to either or both of them.

Roza touches his own chest, tugging at the furred neckline of his robe. “Warm here,” he murmurs. It is due to Trahearne’s proximity, most likely, even if his body rests at no temperature now. Yes—it must be his fault.

Trahearne’s eyes lazily flick to follow the movement. Then he smiles. “You can undo the front of your robe,” he suggests in a tone Roza is surprised to recognize as sly.

He arches his eyebrows. “Are you flirting with me, Trahearne?”

Trahearne’s mouth curls. “Perhaps.”

“Alright, then.” Roza twists his torso, spreading his free arm outwards in an invitation. “If you are going to be so bold about it, you may undress me yourself.”

Trahearne does not cough or clear his throat. He only reaches forwards, slowly, and slides his fingers behind the first clasp of Roza’s robe.

It comes undone, and he makes an interested noise when it exposes silver bark tucked snugly underneath. “Aren’t you doing your business in the Shiverpeaks nowadays?”

“The cold does not affect me overmuch.” Roza shrugs. It isn’t terribly difficult to keep his voice even, even when Trahearne’s forefinger slides down his chest to reach the second clasp. It unlatches with a whisper of cloth. Trahearne gently tugs Roza’s collar open to expose him further, grazing his bark with his fingertips.

“There,” he says. “Is that enough for you, my love, or do you long for more?”

Roza stares at him for a breath. But he refuses to have his own game turned on him, let alone by _this_ sylvari _._ “One more,” he says, perfectly calm.

Slowly, Trahearne’s hand slips lower and undoes the third clasp. His fingers spread the fabric open, tickling against Roza’s abdomen. They stay there, resting peacefully.

Roza drops his head back. “Thank you,” he says, inhaling deeply to calm his breathing.

“Are you less warm now?” Trahearne asks.

Roza snorts. After a moment, he hears a soft chuckle, and the hand splayed across his stomach withdraws.

“I have a question,” he says to the ceiling. “Completely unrelated, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Circumstances have given me cause to… think about certain things. I am curious about something from back when you were alive.”

He turns his head. Trahearne is watching him, his eyes alight with idle curiosity. “My memory nowadays is exceptional. I will answer to the best of my ability.”

“Lovely. Ah, how do I put this?” Roza flexes his free hand, wiggling his fingers absently. “Do you remember when I spent a substantial amount of time trying to… invoke a certain response from you?”

Trahearne’s thumb taps against his wrist. “You will have to be more specific, I’m afraid. I am fairly certain that is your permanent state of being.”

Fair enough. “Certain… physical desires, I mean. From how I dressed, or acted. I only half knew what I was doing, but I wasn’t exactly oblivious to your reaction.”

Roza should not be flushing. He did it on _purpose_. It is the warmth of the room affecting him, it must be.

Trahearne smiles and says, “Oh, that. Yes, I don’t think I could ever forget.”

“Well, ah… did it ever work?”

Trahearne chuckles. “Yes.”

“Yes! This is my question, then.” Roza turns towards him more fully, twisting at the waist. “How did you deal with that desire? Was it not frustrating?”

“Oh.” Trahearne looks somewhat surprised. He expression turns considering for a moment before he replies, “Not terribly. It was not like some… primal urge that took over my every waking thought. I could ignore it, and I did. Not to mention—you were my co-worker, and moreover my subordinate. It would have been terribly unprofessional had I allowed myself to entertain certain thoughts during, say, a meeting. I could control myself.”

He hums a thought to himself. Roza swallows and says, “So you just ignored the… physical urge? And it went away?”

He is distracted. Trahearne’s thumb is idly stroking the inside of his wrist and his bark is—sensitive there. He just learned this fact today, about ten minutes ago.

Trahearne gives him an amused smile. “It went away when I dealt with it,” he says in a tone that is both knowing and teasing.

“Ah.” Roza’s throat clicks. He clears it, shifting his legs. He is grateful for the fact that the skirt of his robe covers as much as it does. “You mean…?”

Trahearne raises an eyebrow. His gaze flits briefly down, then back up. “I mean I took advantage of when I was alone in the privacy of my own chambers.”

Roza winces. “Did that help?” he asks, a little hoarsely. At Trahearne’s nod, “And what if—you didn’t get to, for whatever reason? What happened?”

Trahearne leans into him. “Nothing _happens_ , Roza. You might feel tense, or frustrated, but it will eventually pass. You can also try and work off that energy in other ways, such as fighting. I know that is at least the charr way of sorting things.” He huffs out a chuckle.

Roza nibbles at his lower lip. He feels warm still—hot, even—and he knows he cannot keep trying to pin the blame on Trahearne. “This is a hypothetical,” he insists weakly.

Trahearne gives him a look. Roza’s nibbling turns to chewing, and then he releases his lip and sighs.

“It… is distracting,” he mumbles. “I cannot think as clearly as I am used to, and I am beginning to get this strange ubiquitous tightness in my head. I do not know why this is happening. It hasn’t for years—since sometime when you were alive, if I’m being honest, although I do not think that is a direct correlation. But now it is coming up again, and I don’t…”

He sighs. “It feels so sudden and strange, and I feel as if it should not be so new to me, because it is not as if I am still a sapling. I do not understand.”

He truly doesn’t—he was fine for years. And now, just when his world is beginning to filter in light to colour its shadows, this odd compulsion comes back to bother him like it is a secondary Wyld Hunt? How dare it, honestly.

Trahearne looks at him with quiet eyes. “I do not think it is too sudden. When one is more empty than they are happy, libido can be repressed to the point of non-existence.”

Something in Roza’s chest kicks. “Oh,” he says.

Trahearne winces, shifting against him. Roza looks automatically, because he cannot help himself, but he cannot make out much through the long ferns of his skirt.

“I wish I could help you, I do. And I do not mean purely for selfish reasons.” Trahearne exhales, slow and thoughtful. “How comfortable do you feel with just yourself?”

“I find it does not work, and is a waste of time. But I, ah,” Roza swallows, “Am not uncomfortable with the idea of… you.”

Yellow eyes look at him with newfound focus. Trahearne moves closer, and Roza cannot smell him or sense him through the Dream, but he can feel his magic, how it is thrumming just below the surface. He can feel the thumb still dragging across his wrist, slow and purposeful.

“I am curious,” he admits, eyelids fluttering as he looks down. “And I have been thinking about it. You know how to elicit a reaction in me I have trouble eliciting in myself. When you touch me… Of course, I find the idea of some random stranger poking me everywhere less than favourable. But with _you_ it is… I am curious.”

“I am no random stranger,” Trahearne observes in a low voice.

Roza licks his lips. “No,” he agrees. “You are not. You are the person I trust more than anyone, and you are the love of my sad life. And I want to _try_ , thorns.”

He groans suddenly, throwing his head back. Trahearne’s hand around his wrist tightens, and the stroking stops. “Fuck, I want _something_ , that is for sure. I just do not know what. My mind is aimless. I feel as if I do not know anything about this, and I don’t like not knowing things.”

He cranes his neck to peer at Trahearne, squinting. His lover says, in a roughened but curious tone, “You do not get any… thoughts? About me, or anyone else?”

Roza shakes his head. “What kind of thoughts?” He thinks about Trahearne all the time, but he knows that is probably not what he is being asked. He does not question, _What is wrong with your voice_ , because he may be a menace and a hypocrite, but even he has his limits.

Trahearne’s gaze is unwavering. “Explicit thoughts,” he says, low and gravelly. “Fantasies. Things that you want to do to someone, or with someone.”

That sounds a little disturbing. “Well, I know I want to have sex with you,” Roza points out. “But only because it is an exciting idea, since it is new and I know it is supposed to feel good. At least, most of those terrible books I was forced to read seem to think so.” He flashes his teeth. “Don’t you want to have sex with me? Trahearne? Hm?”

Trahearne hums in affirmation. “Not if you do not wish to,” he says despite it.

“Such a gentleman.” Roza reaches up to trace a forefinger along his lip. Yellow eyes bore into his. “But I do wish to, my dear Trahearne. Now you said this place has a bedroom. Shall we?”

Trahearne moves suddenly, rolling to hover over him. Roza starts in surprise, but then reaches out to pull them closer together, encouraged into seeking the contact. A hand closes around his wrist, stopping him.

Roza blinks rapidly. Trahearne says, voice firm, “Roza. I need to make sure of something. And tell me the truth.”

Roza goes very still. “Mm,” he says.

Trahearne frowns. “I need to know you are not simply asking for this because you want to be touched. Because we can do that, and it does not have to be sexual in nature.”

Oh, Pale Mother bless him. Roza is slowly dying inside, since he might have just discovered something very interesting about himself. But his dear lover is being sweet, which means he should probably pay attention to him.

“Order me to tell you,” he says anyways, because apparently he is a masochist as well as a fool.

Trahearne’s eyes widen minutely. “What?”

“Order me to tell you,” Roza repeats. He has, unfortunately, read enough terrible books to know how this works. He does not even want to think about the why or the how, not right now—Laranthir’s poor therapist can deal with that later—but he is ever a scholar, keen to seek new knowledge.

Trahearne’s gaze narrows. “Tell me why you want this,” he demands, and it is in a tone that brokers absolutely no room for argument.

Roza makes a sound like a dying cat. Trahearne’s eyes go round.

“Do it again,” Roza says, voice cracking embarrassingly.

Trahearne leans further into him. His expression evens out with remarkable speed. “That was an _order_ , Commander,” he says in a voice Roza has not heard in years.

“Oh, I am _fucked_ up,” Roza bemoans when he feels something immediately loosen inside his head. He thought _he_ would enjoy having power over _Trahearne_. Ha, right. “Alright, yes.” He licks his lips nervously. “I do want that. Both, I mean. I am curious about doing this with you, but by the Tree do I get so lonely sometimes, and I would be lying if I said I did not yearn for any form of intimacy. I never thought I would admit that out loud. What have you done to me?”

Trahearne kisses him. Roza moans softly and kisses him back, fingers curling in the stems at the nape of his neck.

“I am so in love with you,” he whispers. “And I ache to be with you when you are not there. I miss you. All the time, so very much. Even when I can hear your voice— _especially_ then, in fact. I want to be next to you, close to you, more than I have ever wanted with anyone. I feel as if my soul will starve if I do not get enough of you.”

Trahearne kisses him again, deeply and for long enough that Roza gets dizzy from the lack of air. When he breaks away he pants against their lips, “I thought it would stop. After you died, I thought it would go away. But it never did. It just _hurt_ , so much—thinking about you hurt, saying your name hurt, trying to figure out if you ever returned my feelings hurt. All the good memories hurt. They still do.”

“Roza.” Trahearne’s hand cups his cheek. Roza leans into the touch, eyes still closed.

“I want to make new memories,” he says. “Not to replace them. But to make the thought of you hurt less. Is that wrong of me? Is it utterly contemptible?”

“No. I think it sounds like a courageous endeavor.” Trahearne’s fingers splay across his temple. “My dear Roza. I am so sorry.”

Roza shakes his head. “It is not your fault for dying, although I am terrible enough to accuse you of it,” he says. He lets out a wet, broken little laugh. “Look at me. You still love me.”

“I love you,” Trahearne corrects, pulling him close. “There is no ‘still’ about it.”

“Then show me,” Roza breathes, and seals their lips together once more.

~*~

It is frigid in his hovel.

Icy wind whistles through a gap between two planks, and Roza winces, reaching out to tug the loose one on the left back into place. Damned ice dragon, ruining the weather. Even Eirwen does not like it here anymore, and her displeasure is much more of a threat than his own. Not that he is keen to ignore how uncomfortable it is up here for much longer—his hands are already blistering, white bark peeling back from the harshness of the mountain air.

Trahearne is going to lecture him for not taking good enough care of himself, Roza thinks as he tears off the edge of a curling leaf—and he stops.

When had that become a regular part of his thought process? He is not someone else’s responsibility.

The wind blows again, and the plank, now held only loosely in his grip, groans and caves into it. Roza hisses out a curse as it crushes his fingers. He wrenches his hand back, wringing it.

 _“Roza?”_ His communicator crackles with strain. Apparently the weather isn’t good for it, either, which is somewhat mystical if Roza thinks about it. _“Are you alright?”_

“Yes, I’m fine. Just hurt my fingers.” Roza straightens up and kicks at the plank. It complains loudly. He kicks at it again, and manages to knock it into place.

 _“It sounds windy up there.”_ Trahearne’s voice is concerned. It has been concerned for approximately the whole day—Roza regrets telling him where he lives. There is a reason why he usually keeps that information to himself. _“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with Aurene?”_

“This is my house!” Roza protests, even if the word ‘house’ is perhaps a slight exaggeration. “I owe property tax on it, so I might as well live in it. Besides, Caithe is back in the Eye of the North. I can’t go.”

There is a pause. Roza holds his breath, praying that his tone is encouragement enough for Trahearne to run with the first statement, and not the second. Thankfully, although he sounds reluctant, Trahearne crackles back, _“I didn’t know shacks had property tax.”_

“It is not a _shack_. It is a lovely little cabin that is just a little run down.” Which has a small fireplace that will not light, a grand total of two broken windows, and a sad excuse for a bed that is mostly just a pile of hides Roza had had to hunt and skin himself. “The tax is more an incentive for the norn village nearby to not break it down into kindling.”

 _“The more you exaggerate, the more worried I get that you will die of hypothermia,”_ says Trahearne. Then, almost cautiously, _“Would it be so bad to just exist in the same space as Caithe does?”_

Roza sighs silently. “Trahearne, don’t, please.”

_“Roza, she still cares about you. Is reconciliation truly that inconceivable of a concept? Aurene loves you both—it pains her to see the distance between the two of you. It pains me to hear of it.”_

“I created that distance for a reason.” Roza begins to pace—as much as he can, at least, since his living space is only about four strides wide. “She wants to cross it, but I do not. I know she blames me for rooting myself into the ground, but I know if I so much as extend a branch to help her, I will be pulled down as well.”

_“You do not have to give her much, Roza. Even just not fighting every time you speak would be a start.”_

Roza swallows tightly. Just how much has he heard from Aurene? “I… do not want to argue with you about her. I understand that you want to; you two were close. But she is your sister, and I am just…”

He hears Trahearne suck in an audible breath. _“That isn’t fair.”_

“Maybe it isn’t.” Roza goes to a broken window, looking out to the vast empty whiteness beyond. “But I never said anything to her when I was too young to know better, and now that I am older…”

He curls his hand against the wall, closing his eyes as a gust of icy wind howls at him. “She was never kind to me,” he says through the shiver it induces. “Not truly. She was not cruel either, but… she has always wanted me to help bear her burdens when I can barely manage my own. Is that fair? Years ago, was that fair? That poor bastard in the Vigil huddled up in his cell all day reading poetry in the dark was in no state to help her. Two broken hearts cannot mend each other. And yet… still she asked.”

Silence. Roza opens his eyes and looks down at the spindling pattern of frost cracking over the glass that remains in the window frame. He traces its edges with an idle finger.

“I suppose,” he says quietly, “That it is unfair of me to judge the past. She couldn’t have known my situation. Yet… I cannot help but feel that way. Holding grudges is a flaw of mine, I will admit.”

He chuckles humourlessly. Trahearne finally replies, _“It is.”_

Roza flinches. He had expected the rejection, but he hadn’t expected it to cut so deeply. He leans back against the flimsy wooden planks that make up the nearest wall, letting them bear his weight.

Trahearne continues, in what Roza tries to convince herself is a gentler tone, _“People can grow beyond their grief, as you know only too well. You should give her a chance, Roza.”_

What happened to ‘dearheart?’ Roza wonders. He says nothing in reply, and Trahearne does not go on. After a long minute, he hears the empty silence of the signal cutting off.

He closes his eyes once more, sliding down against the wall until he sinks to the ground. He bows his head, and sits in stillness for a long, long time.

~*~

Dinner that night is a standard affair. Except…

Except Roza can hear Laranthir scolding him for not eating enough, worry in his sweet voice. He huddles into his hides and tries to sleep, except he can feel the echo of Trahearne, warm and tender, singing to him so he will not have a nightmare. Kasmeer is in the closeness of the thick white fur he pulls tight against his chest. Taimi is in the smile he tries to stitch across his face to tell himself he will not cry. Canach is in the way he smears a tear away with the back of his wrist. Marjory is in the whisper of his magic, called close to him so he can leech its comfort. Even Rytlock is there, in the protection of the fur swaddled around him. And Braham… well, Roza could do with a norn hug right about now.

He tries to sleep.

He wakes up partly because of the brilliant whiteness invading his hovel through the windows, and partly because he is shivering too violently to remain asleep. He is too cold—he needs to go down to the village, where he can get to a hearth. Slowly, he sits up. His furs tumble off his shoulders and he cringes, hunching them together.

He gathers his things, but pauses when he bends to pick up his communicator. Trahearne. They hadn’t said anything more to each other the day before, save for Roza quietly stating that he needed some space. He… should probably check in. Right?

He switches it on. “Trah,” he says, and his voice sticks in his throat, thick with sleep. He clears it, trying again. “Trahearne?”

He waits expectantly for a response. When none is forthcoming, he frowns. A little louder, “Trahearne? Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Roza swallows. Willing himself not to panic—he had come close to it last night, and the dredges of it are still in his system—he gives the communicator a quick shake. Perhaps the cold has simply… jammed the signal, or something.

“Trahearne,” he calls clearly, lips a centimetre away from the dark grey metal. “It is Roza. Are you getting this? Why aren’t you replying?”

Silence still. The signal should not be interrupted by the weather, not if it is to the Mists. Roza’s hands begin to shake.

“I…” He breathes in, then out. Steady. “Can you hear me? Please. Trahearne? Please, can you hear me?”

His voice cracks on the second ‘please,’ and he shuts his eyes, already feeling what is coming. In, out. Breathe. Breathe. Why isn’t Trahearne replying? Is he angry? He must be angry. Roza has upset him. Roza has—

“Are you… angry about what I said about Caithe?” he croaks. “I’m sorry. I take it back. Please.”

He shakes the communicator again, violently. Frustration and despair rise from his stomach, balling up into a large pit and lodging in his throat.

“Please,” he chokes out in one last attempt. Silence follows.

Roza curls up on the floor and falls apart.

When he is done, he leaves his hovel, because he really does need to get to somewhere warmer. Eirwen is already gone, a glance into her usual roosting place tells him. She has far more sense than he does. He pulls his too-thin robe snugly against himself—Trahearne was right about it not being enough to protect him, and thorns, thinking about Trahearne really hurts right now—and stumbles through the nearly hip-deep snow in the direction of the village.

The norn there greet him worriedly. There is a joking comment made about how he really does fit his namesake, but its humour dies when large hands feel the trembling in his shoulders. Roza is all but shoved into the lodge, thick bodies blocking any other path he might think to take.

“Breakfast for you, Wraith,” grunts a tall beard as Roza is pushed into a seat at a table. Large hands set down a warm bowl of something smelling like oats and dolyak milk. It is roughly the size of his head.

“Thank you, Eirik,” he mutters, eying it dubiously.

A hearty clap on his back folds him nearly in half. “You need to put some meat on your skinny plant bones!” Eirik booms, before stomping away to go kill and butcher an entire den of mountain bears for his own breakfast, or perhaps to down five barrels of morning ale.

Roza is about a fifth of the way through the bowl—and feeling quite full from its contents—when his communicator emits a sharp, staticky whine. He freezes, barely daring to hope.

 _“—oza?”_ it crackles. He immediately drops his spoon into the bowl—it sinks and disappears—and grabs at it, fingers scrabbling.

“Trahearne!” He nearly sobs in relief. “Yes, I can hear you. Hello?”

_“Roza! There you are, finally. I’ve tried contacting you a few times over the past couple of hours, but there was no response. I think the signal cut out somehow.”_

Roza could cry. “ _Trahearne_. I missed you so much. I’m so sorry for everything I said,” he breathes.

 _“Everything you… said?”_ Trahearne sounds like he is frowning, and Roza’s stomach immediately clenches. _“No, it’s…”_

“About Caithe,” Roza elaborates. “I’m so sorry. I take it all back, I swear. Please stay with me. Don’t leave.”

He can hear how pathetic he sounds, but his mind is too weak and beaten down right now for him to care. Trahearne is here again. Roza will beg to keep his company if he has to.

There is a short pause. _“I am not leaving you,”_ Trahearne says. He sounds strange. _“Roza, come visit me. You should not be alone right now.”_

Roza gasps raggedly. “I should be,” he disagrees. “I des—”

 _“Do_ not _finish that sentence.”_ Trahearne’s voice is sharp, and Roza’s throat sticks. _“Come here as soon as you can. Or else I will get Aurene to drag you to me herself.”_

Roza shouldn’t bother Aurene by making her go out of her way for him. “No, I’ll go,” he mumbles. “Can you… stay on the line? Please?”

 _“Of course, dearheart,”_ Trahearne acquiesces immediately, and something that has been frozen inside Roza’s chest since the night before begins to thaw.

Aurene is pulsing worry at him when he goes to her. He barely gets enough time to stroke a reassuring hand down her flank before she is pushing him through a portal. It cannot be a good idea so soon after the last one, he wants to argue, but something tells him that neither she nor Trahearne will listen.

He stumbles through and is hit with a wave of nausea that he forgot to prepare for. He reels, but mostly-solid arms catch him, and then someone else is bearing almost his entire weight.

“My dear Roza,” Trahearne breathes, embracing him tightly. “Pale Mother, you’re freezing. Let’s get you inside.”

Roza plods after him with silent footsteps. Trahearne lights a fire in the hearth that catches with unnatural quickness, and tugs him down in front of it.

“There we go,” he murmurs, rubbing fleeting warmth over Roza’s arms. “You can rest now. You are with me. Are you alright? You have not said a word.”

Roza looks down. “I’m sorry, I’m feeling vacant,” he says quietly. “I had an… episode earlier.”

He winces automatically at how delicate that makes him sound. Trahearne sucks in a breathe.

“That explains your behaviour,” he mutters. “How long ago was it?”

Roza shrugs one shoulder. “I… do not know. An hour or so ago. Trahearne.” He looks up with dark eyes. Anxiety is still wriggling in his stomach like a sick worm, and he detests its presence. “I am so sorry about all I said yesterday. I did not mean to fight with you.”

Trahearne shakes his head. “Forget about that,” he says. “Ah, what is it you always say? ‘Let’s not talk about that right now.’ Focus on the present moment. What do you need from me?”

“Your forgiveness.” Roza bows his head in shame. “You do so much for me, and I show you no gratitude in return. You reassure me, and you comfort me, and you love me even if when I do not deserve it. It means a lot to me. Thank you.”

When he looks at Trahearne again, he is frowning. “Roza, there is nothing to forgive,” he says slowly. “Of course I am caring for you—that is what I am supposed to do, both as your friend and your partner. Whether you think you ‘deserve’ it or not does not matter.”

Roza gives him a tired smile. “That is very kind of you to say,” he says.

“No it isn’t. It is simply the truth.” Trahearne’s frown grows. “Roza… why were you panicking? What was it that upset you?”

Roza’s breath catches. “I… these episodes are irrational, with no foundation in logic,” he replies, trying to sound dismissive.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” says Trahearne.

Roza swallows around a tight throat, drawing his shoulders together. The last thing he expects is to be pulled against Trahearne’s chest, enfolded by gentle arms.

“You do not have to tell me now,” Trahearne says. “Take whatever comfort you need from me. I am yours.”

Roza’s spine stiffens. Trahearne’s arms loosen, but Roza catches them, and they stop short of pulling away. He tugs until they are snug.

“I… would rather not tell you at all,” he says tentatively.

“And you do not have to.” Trahearne sighs quietly. He sounds disappointed, Roza notices with a pang. “But I rather wish you would. I do not want to upset you again for the same reason. I do not know if it is an issue of trust, or familiarity, or if you are simply not ready, but… whenever you want to talk, Roza, I am here to listen.”

Roza inhales shakily. He does not deserve this kindness. He does not deserve…

“I love you,” Trahearne says, pressing a simple kiss to his branches. “I hope you know that. I hope I never give you cause to doubt it.”

Roza makes a wet noise. “I thought you were ignoring me,” he admits in a hoarse voice. Just like that, the lock on his heart clicks open and falls. “I thought… you were being silent as punishment, because I made a mistake. I did something wrong.”

His hands start to shake, and Trahearne immediately, without a word, releases his hold to take them in his. Memory spears through Roza violently—he nearly chokes at its impact.

“I know it is irrational,” he manages. He squeezes. “I know you would not do that. But… I cannot help it. I’m sor—” He stops. _Stop apologizing_ , rings strident and offended in his mind, and he stops. “No, I… cannot help it. It is… not my fault.”

He doubts the words as soon as they leave his mouth. But Trahearne’s resulting expression feels like absolution, and suddenly he wants to break down and let everything out.

He closes his eyes, chasing the tail end of this newfound strength for as long as it will guide him. “It is a fear I’ve always had. Disappointing people. Making mistakes. Being less than perfect. So many terrible things have happened because of me. So many people have died.”

The hands around his are tight. Safe. “You died.”

They tighten further. “Roza.” That is Trahearne’s voice, raw and gaunt. A forehead leans against his own. “That was _not_ your fault.”

Roza sobs. There are so many things he has said to counter that very thought—so many arguments, so many excuses. He does not voice any of them now. Instead he tries to believe it, as hard as he can.

“I know,” he whispers, and he hopes with all that is in him that it is not a lie.

~*~

Roza channels more magic into the communicator, chilling it by another small, controlled amount. “Try it now,” he says.

Trahearne, once more, speaks into his own device. “Testing.”

The communicator cracks. “ _…sting,”_ it says at the same time. There is a sharp, metallic whine.

Roza freezes it by another degree. “Now.”

“Testing.”

No sound comes out from the dark metal. Roza sighs in relief. Something in his chest that had been knotted tight loosens.

“There we go. The physical components are what are vulnerable to atmospheric damage, not the connection like we thought. It does not work if it is too cold.”

He tips back his head and laughs, dry and cool. “It doesn’t work in the _cold_. Thank the Pale Tree we are figuring this out now.”

Trahearne’s expression contorts into something half horrified as he makes the same connection. “Jormag,” he realizes. He huffs out a disbelieving laugh to echo Roza’s, teeth flashing. “Right. Thorns, I cannot imagine if we lost the signal in the middle of…”

“Myself getting mauled by another Elder Dragon?” Roza finishes wryly. “Me neither. Oh, did I ever tell you about the time when that happened and Canach dumped me on a mountainside and left me to bleed out by myself? He’s a terrible person.”

Trahearne shakes his head with a smile. “I look forward to getting to know your friends more,” he says. He ducks his neck. “If… that is something you’ll allow, that is.”

Roza’s lips part. “Ah…” He scratches his jaw, wincing. “I don’t see too much harm in it. As long as we’re selective in who counts as a ‘friend’—Dragon’s Watch is clear, but we may have to be careful with secondary acquaintances. I believe at this point no trust issue can be considered overcautious.”

Trahearne nods. “Of course, I understand. I am interested in connecting with the people who care about you, Roza. Not to mention… I do not have much in the way of company here.”

He smiles sheepishly. Roza rolls his eyes and says, “Mulch, right—put Gretchen on a leash, and then we’ll see about who you can talk to. Elsewise she’ll start asking Jormag themselves inappropriate personal questions.”

Trahearne laughs. “You’re terrible,” he scolds fondly. He gazes at him, eyes crinkling. “Ah, but it will be good to finally be able to be at your side when you are in danger, even indirectly. You need someone to take care of you.”

Roza scoffs. “I do not.”

“Mmhm. Did Canach really dump you on that mountainside, or did you wander there yourself for some ‘alone time?’”

Roza sputters, caught in his lie. Trahearne looks amused at his expression.

“Yes, that is what I thought, dearheart.” He tips Roza’s chin up. “You can lie to your friends, but I’ve known your habits for years.” He leans in, face drawing close. “Good luck trying that with me.”

The challenge, strangely enough, makes heat rise in Roza’s cheeks. “You’re as bad as Laranthir,” he mutters, trying to cool them.

“Oh, no.” Trahearne grazes his lips with the pad of his thumb. “I am much worse.”

Roza raises a cheeky eyebrow. He nips the digit lightly, although the angle makes it more of a blunt press of teeth than a bite. The small intake of breath it earns him is nothing but encouragement, really. Remembering something he had read once in one of those terrible, trashy novels, he purses his li—

Trahearne pulls away. “No,” he says.

Roza pouts. Trahearne pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters, “Maybe _you_ need a leash.”

He winces but a second later. Roza grins. “Oh, wouldn’t you like _that_ , hm?” He seals his own hand loosely around his throat and exaggerates his pout. Trahearne makes a strangled noise, breaking away.

“Hey,” Roza says, ducking his head to try and make eye contact. “Oh, come on. Trahearne. Dearheart. Love of my life. Not up for a little teasing? You seemed very much _up_ for it—”

“I am going to go downstairs and read now,” says Trahearne. He begins to walk away.

“Coward!” Roza calls after him. He arches on the balls of his feet. “I am taking this as admittance of defeat! Just so you know!”

Trahearne makes a gesture with his hand that makes him guffaw in disbelief. Who knew? _His_ sweet, innocent ex-marshal. So crude and uncultured.

Roza giggles to himself. He will take all the credit for that.

~*~

“And then I said to just tell me what he _wants_ , because it is not like I can read his mind!” Roza laughs. “But he became all blushing and shy. It was adorable.”

Laranthir shakes his head with a small smile. “I think you may be too much for him,” he agrees.

Roza drags his forefinger down his cheek to simulate a tear. “I think I am,” he says with an overdramatic sigh. “You know, I started to suggest ideas, since he wasn’t going to, and I think I broke him. You should have forced _him_ to join your book club. I think he needs to expand his horizons.”

“I do not think the first of the firstborn is actually as sheltered as you seem to believe.” Laranthir’s smile quirks upwards. “He may just be in love with you.”

Roza rolls his eyes. “Well I’m in love with him too, obviously,” he mutters, and he somehow manages not to blush, despite his embarrassment. “But I can get out complete sentences when I am talking about where I think he’d want to stick his—”

 _“If I may interrupt,”_ Trahearne interrupts, _“Gretchen is coming back soon. Perhaps the conversation should shift to a topic that is less inappropriate. Or intensely personal.”_

Laranthir’s eyes widen. “Trahearne!” He jerks upright in his chair. “I didn’t know you were—pardon my, ah…”

“You’re such a wet leaf.” Roza unhooks his new and improved communicator—smaller, sleeker, and smarter, according to Gorrik—from his belt and holds it up, inspecting it. “Fine, I’ll turn this off next time we gossip. Happy?”

 _“Your generosity never ceases to humble me.”_ Despite the sarcasm, Trahearne’s tone holds no real bite. Roza had asked beforehand what details he could share, of course; he knows all too well the want to cultivate his petals close to his chest.

_“Laranthir, if you’ve recovered—I think now would be a perfect time for what we had discussed. Did you manage to get it?”_

Laranthir gives his head a small shake, pulling himself together. “I did,” he confirms. He shoots Roza a quick wink, rising from his seat. “Stay here, Commander. No peeking.”

“Discussed? What are you talking about?” Roza arches his neck, following Laranthir’s form as he moves away to search for something on a shelf. “I do not remember discussing anything.”

 _“You happened to be away,”_ Trahearne says. _“Remember? In the meantime, Laranthir and I had plenty of time to chat. Apparently you went mysteriously missing on your eighth birthday—you probably spent the whole day in your broken down little shack, didn’t you?”_

Laranthir glances back over his shoulder. “Shack?”

Roza had, in fact, secluded himself in his hovel. “Later,” he mutters, fully intending to drop the subject. “So, what is this? You got me a present?”

“It was something of a group effort.” Laranthir returns, holding a small box tied with iridescent, stringy leaves. “We wanted to give you something that you would actually use, so I had to fetch some… encouragement. Anyways, stay your questions and open it up. You’ll see.”

Roza takes the box, curious despite himself. He unties it with graceful fingers, carefully lifting the lid.

He peers inside. “A book! Oh!”

“Read the first few pages,” says Laranthir.

It is not a book, exactly, but rather a vine-bound journal, a quick thumbing through tells Roza. He flips to the first page. Elegant handwriting fills it, continuing past the end.

_Dear Roza,_

_With every new spring that blooms, your spirit grows a little stronger and a little wiser. With age comes experience, wisdom, and understanding of the world. Yet your world is harsh, and that understanding, for you, comes at a price. You persevere despite it, and indeed, you fight with enough strength and determination to be a beacon of hope for all of Tyria. The fate of our entire race even rested once on your young shoulders, and it is something we will never forget._

_But every hero is a person outside their legend, and every soldier needs their rest. When I was young and my life was difficult—though not nearly half as difficult as yours—I found my escape through poetry. You are already intimately familiar with the long and winding path my journey took me on. You have been with me, through your faithful readership, at every twist and turn. I find it only right that I start you on your own journey._

_So when your skies are clouded, write in here. When torrents of rain pour, when thunder strikes, when lightning comes crashing down, write in here. When your days are bright, your nights peaceful, and laughter comes easily to you, pen your thoughts. If you need a challenge—and I feel as if you will delight in one—try to make it all rhyme. And who knows? Perhaps one day I shall be your greatest admirer as you are now my most treasured one._

_With utmost sincerity and well-wishes,_

_Dagonet_

_P.S. Laranthir of the Wild made a joke about telling you I was interested in him, then backtracked and said “No, don’t, he might hunt even you down.” Was he being serious? Because he’s quite attractive._

“I am just going to ignore that last bit,” Roza mutters. His voice comes out hoarse, and he clears it, wiping at the corner of his eye with his sleeve.

Laranthir is looking at him with a soft smile. “I do not know how interested you are in dabbling in the creative arts,” he says. “But I do know having an outlet can be an important part of recovery—emotional or mental. Perhaps… it was a pointless gift, since of course you can go out and buy a journal wherever you please. But I thought…”

“No!” Roza clears his throat. “It is not pointless at all. It… is lovely, Laranthir. I really appreciate it, thank you.” He ducks his head.

“Ah, then I will say that it was Trahearne’s idea.” Laranthir’s smile blossoms. “The note was mine. I thought it might motivate you.”

“It is lovely too.” Roza shouldn’t be getting choked up. He is an impressive, aloof sylvari who does not cry. He sniffles, wiping at his eyes once more.

 _“We do not expect you to always be happy, nor to be cured by love alone.”_ Trahearne’s voice is gentle and clear. _“But this should help start you on that journey. Try it, at least. I think it will suit you very well.”_

“Hah, that is similar to what Dagonet said.” Roza stretches out his face, trying to get it back to normal. “I think it will suit me as well. I never thought to… But no, it’s a very good idea, which means of course it never occurred to me. Thank you both.”

“You are very welcome.” Laranthir reaches out to squeeze his hand. “Speaking of Dagonet, he mentioned something about wanting to write back to you, but apparently you do not having a mailing address? What is that all about?”

Roza hides a wince. “Oh.”

 _“Oh,”_ Trahearne repeats in a much more pointed tone. _“Yes, explain to Laranthir about your shack.”_

“This shack again.” Laranthir raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Roza, you told me you had a ‘lovely little cottage somewhere in the Shiverpeaks.’ That is the absolute truth, right?”

Trahearne snorts. _“If ‘lovely’ means that I am supposed to be able to hear the outside from the inside, then yes, it seems like a delightful little place. What was that you said about the norn wanting to break it down into kindling?”_

“Trahearne,” Roza hisses, “Do not—he will lecture me. It’s not a shack.” The last bit is directed at Laranthir.

“Oh, it’s not?” The eyebrow arches higher. Contrarily, Roza sinks in his seat. He should not be intimidated by Laranthir. _He_ is the intimidating one. Laranthir is the… soft, wimpy one.

“It… may be closer to a hovel,” he mumbles to the table.

“I see.” Laranthir leans forwards. Roza sinks down further. He feels like a sapling again, which is ridiculous. “Do you know, I have an abundance of free time on my hands. I think we should go on a little field trip right now. I can check for myself—and narrate to Trahearne, in _detail_ —just how lovely your hovel is. What do you think, hm?”

“I wish you could, but Eirwen is very territorial,” Roza tries. “She will claw your eyes out, and I do not want you getting hurt.”

He puts on an insincere, apologetic smile. Laranthir says, “How considerate of you. Luckily, I know of her weakness for omnomberries, so I think I will be fine. Isn’t that fortunate?”

 _“Very fortunate,”_ says Trahearne before Roza can reply. _“I cannot wait to listen attentively to that detailed narration. Roza was very sparing with his description.”_

“Shocking.” Laranthir stares him down, and his protest dies on his lips. “Get up and fetch your things, Commander. I’m right behind you, so don’t worry about mysteriously losing me.”

Roza is already plotting how to do just that. “Oh, don’t worry, Laranthir.” One last attempt. He makes his eyes large. “Trahearne was saying the other day about how he wants to put me on a leash, so maybe you should try that for extra security.”

Laranthir gapes, the communicator makes a choked noise, and Roza smiles smugly. _There we go_ , he thinks.

He may have lost the war, but he has won this battle.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> that's all! of course, as always, tell me what you think and i will be ever grateful! <3
> 
> [the song for this one!](https://youtu.be/_JUwcv7dUQI)


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